The Blood of the Lamb
by G12G4
Summary: April 1886: Naval Officers are disappearing in Bombay! When Lt. Com. Jeremy Hoople, a promising young naval prodigy disappears piracy is suspected and James Bond (AKA Lord Roger Norbert) is called in to investigate. But as the case twists and turns a new foe is discovered more deadly and destructive than any Bond has faced before. Part of the Mina Moore series.
1. Chapter 1

Roger frowned slightly as he scanned the transcription he had made. Only moments ago the dusty telegraph - it seemed dust coated everything in this place in perpetuity; even the air was thick with it and would remain so until the rains of July turned it to a fine coating of mud - in his apartment had sprung to life spouting what would amount to the unsuspecting listener as gibberish. At the sound of the message Roger abandoned the pan of something deep red in color and otherwise unidentifiable in content that was supposed to be his supper for the small wooden table where he immediately began to transcribe the message. It was not a complex code - he could easily pick it out from the nonsense without even having to write all the extraneous letters and numbers on the sheet of paper. Satisfied that he had memorized the content on the parchment, he folded it and half and dangled the corner over the candle, which sat beside the infernal clicking machine, until a plume of dark smoke informed him it had caught fire. He watched the orange flames consume the paper with a vague disinterest until such time as the heat began to lick at his fingers. He dropped the remainder of the note into the silver candle holder, waiting until the final shred had been immolated before rising from the chair to pull a book from the shelf behind him. He flipped through the pages, stopping only briefly to scan one or another until he had ascertained the location of the meeting with the man he knew only as The Sikh.

Since his assignment to Bombay he had only been called to a meeting with The Sikh on a handful of occasions. He knew precious little of the dark skinned man, who wore the deep blue pagri despite his snow white beard, aside from that he was in the employ of the High Commission. Roger's brow furrowed as he scraped the contents of the pan into the trash, there was no time for eating it now. In truth he felt little sorrow for the loss, expecting it would have found its way there regardless for he had no appetite for it at the moment. He had found he had a rather reduced desire for Indian food since he had received that letter from home - a letter that, though it had sat on his desk for the better part of a month, yet remained unopened, Quentin Underhill's neat penmanship still staining the front of the thick, ornately stamped envelope. He suspected the contents, had even expected them a great deal earlier - he knew within in stark black letters formed from the finest calligrapher's pen would be long awaited date, finally named, the culmination of years of parental wishes and prayers. Replacing the book on the shelf of his barren apartment, Roger threw on his coat and made his way out the door into the hall.

The Sikh stood slightly recessed in the alley beside the textile shop, shade from the awning almost fully obscuring the man from view. Roger examined a number of the fabrics, running a few of the finer silks through his fingers before slowly sidling up to the mysterious figure. "Sat Shri Akal"

"Waheguru Ji Ka Khalsa, Waheguru Ji Ki Fateh. We meet again Mr. Bond," The Sikh replied. "It is good to see you are well."

"For the moment. What news is there from the Office?" The man did not answer Roger's inquiry, only shifting his eyes toward the shop. Roger followed his line to the store owner within, watching the pair of them closely. "I see."

"I will meet you at the other end of the alley." The Sikh said. Roger nodded, returning to his perusal of the fabrics. Finally, after some minutes, he decided on a light cotton twill for his sister. He left the shop, strolling down the crowded boulevard as though with no specific destination, going some distance before hurriedly turning down an alley and making his way to the meeting place. For a moment he feared he had delayed to long in his return, for he did not see The Sikh anywhere, when suddenly the queersome man melted out from the shadows. Roger raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement,

"I fear we have drawn some unwanted attention. Might I ask what this is regarding?"

"A number of British sailors have gone missing."

"I see little out of the ordinary in that. What has the Office concerned about a few deserters?"

"Among the missing soldiers is a Lt. Commander Jeremy Hoople." The Sikh said, handing Roger an envelope. Roger perused the contents quickly. Within the packet were a number of papers documenting Lt. Commander Hoople's meteoric rise in Her Majesty's Royal Navy. Joining as a sailor only a few years ago, Hoople seemed to have proved quite the prodigy. He had recently attained his rank following a hurricane gale off the Ivory Coast, which took the ship far out to sea and saw the loss of his ship's Captain as well as the failure of the First Mate to rise to the occasion, wherein he proved himself the hero of the day; not only saving the ship but navigating it safely to African shores.

"Oh yes, I heard about this incident. I believe the First Mate is still gibbering to rats in Bedlam." Roger remarked, The Sikh regarded the dark haired man stonily. Roger continued shifting through the documents, stopping on a picture of a slight-framed light haired man in full Naval regalia whom he guessed to be the Lt. Commander. "Has there been any reason to suspect foul play?" Roger asked. The Sikh made no answer. 'No then.' Roger thought to himself. "Likely Shanghaied then." he mumbled to himself "Though who would be so bold is rather the more important issue." The Sikh nodded almost imperceptibly.

"The High Commission would appreciate if you might look into the matter, Mr. Bond." The Sikh suggested. "Mr. Hoople's wife and children would be much relieved to have him restored to them."

"Where was Lt. Commander Hoople staying before he disappeared?"

"We believe he had a room at the Queen Victoria."

"Then that is where I will begin," Roger answered with a nod. "Good day to you."

"Victory belongs to God." The Sikh responded, drawing his dark cloak about him and melting back into the shadows.


	2. Chapter 2

"Mr. Bond, you said your name was?" the clerk at the front desk of the Hotel Victoria asked. He was a portly man, the pale flesh of his forehead had well encroached on his pale orange curls, leaving only a strip on top only a few inches above his round spectacles.

"Yes, James Bond. I would like a room for the evening. This hotel was recommended to me by the captain of the Bon Celeste."

The clerk regarded him dubiously. Unhooking a key from behind the counter, he handed it to Roger. "I have a room on the second floor."

"Thank you," Roger said, taking the keys. "I'm sure it will be most satisfactory."

Roger made his way up the stairs to the dingy hallway, finding his room he unlocked the door. Still, the door did not move. He pushed somewhat harder, but again it refused to budge. Slamming his whole body weight against it the door finally gave way with a loud protesting squeal and he stumbled into the room. And what a sorry room to behold it was! The wallpaper was blotted with grease spots, a thin film of dust sticking to it. A cheaply framed print of the queen hung above the bed, looking down on the sleeper with mild disapproval. He ran an index finger along the bedspread, examining it, he rubbed it against his thumb, a viscous oily feel caused him to wipe his hand across his trouser leg. "Vile place." he muttered; "Doesn't say much for the ship's quarters." Roger rubbed a sleeve in a circular motion on the window glass, clearing the grime from it enough to see through it into the harbor. He watched for some time as the ships loaded and unloaded their cargo; for all its flaws the hotel did offer an excellent vantage point for a commander looking to keep and eye on his ship. A desire Roger suspected Hoople possessed. Pulling himself away from the glass, Roger returned to the front desk.

"Is it to your satisfaction?" the clerk inquired.

"It is passable. I intend to be out for the evening, if anyone calls for me."

"Are you expecting a guest?"

"No, but the captain may leave a message. He suspected our departure tomorrow might be delayed."

The clerk raised his brows but only replied impassively, "Check out is promptly at eleven. If you require a longer stay you will need to pay for the second night."

"Thank you, I will make arrangements if it becomes necessary."

Roger squinted from the bright Indian sun, made all the more intense by his time spent in the dimly lit hotel. He scanned the shops that lined the rutted street across from the harbor. They were cheap affairs - more for the sailors than the discerning buyer - ready to move on at the first hint of the monsoon floods; not unlike sea birds that alighted the moment a large wave crashed upon the shore, only to land again once the water had subsided. A shadow in an alleyway caught his attention. A sallow face, topped by a pillbox shaped white turban and spotted by a profusion of dark moles, peered around the corner and then withdrew. Roger crept around the building to the other side of the alley where he could see the back of the man turned from him, still searching the crowd for his quarry. Roger drew up behind the man, deftly he covered the man's mouth, preventing him from crying out as he steered him backward, down into the depths of the alley. "Dost, I have need of your services." Roger whispered into the man's ear. The man struggled against Roger's grip but found himself unequal to the task. "Can I count on you for your assistance?" The terror-stricken man nodded. "Good." Roger said, releasing his hand from the man's mouth. The man spun from Roger's slackened grip,

"What can I do for you today, Mr. Bond?" he sneered, his curled lip revealing a wide black space flanked by green-veined teeth stained a dingy brown. He stared down at Roger haughtily, yet behind those eyes Roger could see a shade of fear still lurked. The man's hand slowly crept inside his dust encrusted tunic.

"I wouldn't, unless you would prefer I save you another trip to the barber." Roger warned, eyeing the gap in the man's mouth pointedly. The man withdrew his hand, the glint of silver just showing from within the folds of cloth. "Have you heard anything regarding missing British Sailors?"

"I hear many things, Mr. Bond. What value is it to you?"

"I need to find this man." Roger produced the photograph of Hoople from within his coat.

"And what business is it of mine?"

"Humor me, if you would." Roger handed the photograph to the man who took it, crumpling the banknote concealed beneath into his hand without a glance.

"This man I have seen. He purchased some textiles from my cousin last week. He went to the Hotel Victoria. I did not see him again."

"How long did you lie in wait?"

The man displayed his yellowed teeth in what might be thought a smile, "Until the ships had loaded in the morning. But him I did not see again."

"Have you heard anything of the other missing men?"

"You are asking the wrong man. I would suggest you speak with those... much closer to your own heart." he said, pointedly. "I can tell you no more."

"I thank you for your time, dost. Phir milengae"

"Not if I see you first, dost." the man muttered, eyes cast menacingly upon the departing spy.

* * *

The information had been purchased cheaply, far below the man's usual price. Roger considered as he made his way back to the hotel. That fact boded poorly. This was deeply personal to his informant, and to that man few things were sacred - he would sell information on his own mother if it meant he might spend another hour frolicking among the flowers on a woven mat in the squalid darkness of the den - but only for the right price. If the information were so readily given it could only mean one thing. Roger frowned. So the sailors were being taken by their own countrymen. Still, he had not surrendered a name. And not only had he been unwilling to name the culprit, but he had refused further negotiations on the subject. Only a man of rank could invoke the servile nature of the conquered race - whether that invocation were willingly entered into or not. Roger suspected the latter. Fear, generations of subjugation had bout his informant's silence. Even Bond did not have the power to guarantee protection from the wrath of the Council or its Governor, he thought, reaching to turn the key in the lock when suddenly, his hand stopped.

He stooped down; attention caught by the pale thread, having previously adorned the shank of the knob, lying on the crimson carpet. Pulling his pistol, he pressed himself against the door and turned the key in the lock. Turning the knob, he threw open the door, his full weight propelling it into the room. He felt the dull weight of the first body forced against the wall by the wooden door. Two large men stared at him in momentary shock before the nearest one, a dark haired man of pale complexion, rushed him. Roger easily sidestepped him, slamming the butt of his pistol into the back of the man's skull. The other, a red-headed man with the tanned skin of a swabbie, pulled a knife; standing his ground, but Roger could see his whole body shaking in fear. A smile played about his lips as he leveled the gun at the man, "You don't really want to do that, do you?" The other man looked to the man lying prone on the floor and then back to the barrel of the gun; the cylinder turned slowly as Roger readied the trigger. "I will shoot you." The man desperately looked about himself as if trying to find an escape route. Suddenly, he steadied a moment, eyes affixed on Roger. Without even looking, Roger threw his gun hand up over his shoulder - the metal made a loud clinking sound as it contacted the teeth of the third man. He staggered back, his mouth cradled in his hands. Droplets of blood sprayed forth as he loudly cursed in pain - a scouser, how interesting. The second man, seeing his moment, charged Roger. It was a clumsy attempt, ill-conceived. Roger stooped, easily catching the torso of the man and throwing him over onto his cohort. As the pair struggled to disentangle themselves Roger strolled over beside them. The click of the pistol cocking caused them to freeze where they lay, they looked up, eyes wide, staring into the barrel of the gun. "Now then, are we quite finished? You might as well drop the knife." he suggested. The second man did as he was told; Roger kicked the blade across the room. "You there." Roger waved his gun at the large man; still bleeding profusely from a gash in his lip, his gaping mouth revealing the loss of half a tooth. The scouser nodded fearfully. "Tie him up." he ordered, indicating the former knife-wielder.

* * *

The clerk glanced up from his paper at the sound of steps coming down the stairway. His eyes grew wide at the sight of the well dressed man adjusting his cufflinks as he lightly descended the last few stairs. "Ah, Mr. Bond," the clerk stammered, hands blindly shifting around the shelf that hung from beneath the desk for a weapon of any sort he might use, "I thought you were in for the night." Roger rushed the clerk before he could find the object of his search, grasping him by the cravat he yanked the pudgy man forward.

"Who put you up to this?" he demanded.

"I-I don't know what you could mean." the clerk stuttered, eyes darting to the stairwell.

Roger yanked the terrified man by his neck, slamming him against his desk. Leaning over, he drew his face so close to the other man's he could see his hot breath fog the clerk's broken spectacles, "If you are hoping your friends will come to your aid I'm sorry to inform you but they are a bit tied up at the moment. Tell me. How many others have there been?"

"What others?"

Roger's eyes narrowed, he swiped the man across the desk as though he were a dust rag, slamming the clerk's bulky form against the wall Roger placed his pistol against the man's temple, "I won't ask again."


	3. Chapter 3

Roger stepped down from the coach, adjusting his cufflinks as he stood on the gray slate tiles that adorned the outdoor walkways. His gaze traveled from the entrance stairs that led into the massive plantation house, up the grand roman columns to the balcony. Above that rose another story with a second, smaller balcony trimming the front, just above the first. Jutting into the sky, the ornate balustrades crowning the roof of the grand house stood in relief from the deep orange of the sunset. From the manicured gardens to the decorative concrete furnishings every inch of the place seemed designed to impress upon the viewer its owner's prestige by its sheer gratuitous display of wealth. New money, Roger snorted derisively. An unfortunate habit of these businessmen; scarcely able to scrape together enough for a fine house in the homeland, they create for themselves opulent Indian palaces in their adopted country. He straightened his coat and strolled up the stairs into the main hall flanked by half a dozen other ladies and gentlemen.

He stood for some moments observing the scene after his entrance was announced when an elderly gentleman accosted him, "Good evening, Mr. Bond was it?"

"Yes, sir." Roger acknowledged the man with a low bow.

"Of the Lincolnshire Bonds?"

"No, Scotland. Lately of London." Roger returned, recalling James's ancestral family home of Skyfall nestled in the highlands. He had visited once, some years ago, for a wedding or some such nonsense. Now it was in the possession of James's cousin, Andrew.

"Pity. When I heard the name I had hoped to meet a fellow countryman."

"I am sorry to disappoint."

"It is no matter. I am Dr. Emmett Collingsby, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Might I introduce my wife, Matilda?" The jovial appearance of the rotund lady when contrasted with the severe visage of her skeletal husband brought nothing to Roger's mind so much as that old nursery rhyme of Jack Sprat and his wife.

"It is a pleasure to meet you." Roger took her hand, giving it a gentle press.

"Are you recently arrived from England?" the plump lady asked.

"I arrived last month."

"How have you found our fair city thus far?"

"I regret I have had little time to acquaint myself with it; my employer has kept me quite busy since I arrived."

"So will this be the first of Mr. Stanton's Balls you have attended?"

"Yes, I regret to say if has been rather a long time since I attended a Ball of any sort."

"That is a pity. You must meet our daughter. She is out on the floor at the moment; but, I believe she may still have a few spaces left on her dance card for the evening."

"I would be gratified if she would do me the honor." Roger replied courteously.

The good doctor pulled him aside, "You must forgive my wife, she is intent that our daughter marry a gentleman from England."

"How disappointed she will be to find I am Scottish." Roger returned jokingly.

Dr. Collingsby seemed to visibly relax, "Quite disappointed, indeed." The pair surveyed the scene, not so much speaking as watching. "You look quite different from last I saw you." the elder man finally said, without turning his eyes from the floor.

Roger bristled with alarm, still he managed to maintain an outward look of calm, "You'll have to refresh my memory; when was that again?"

"Some years ago, after that incident with Mr. Patel." the doctor supplied. Roger's shoulders relaxed, visibly lowering. "I had thought you would be returning sooner."

"Yes, there was some... unpleasantness."

"Yes, I heard. Terrible pity." the two once more lapsed into silence.

"Have you seen Mr. Stanton about?" Roger finally broached. "I would be remiss if I did not greet my host. He will wish to speak to me, I am certain."

"He was dancing a moment ago with his daughter. That is her over there." the doctor nodded toward a marvelously lovely young lady surrounded by a good deal of young gentlemen. "He has rather a weakness for indulging her. I daresay the best way to ensure success with him is to first secure her good regard." Her ebony hair hung gracefully about her shoulders, softly framing her ivory face. Her features were small but for a pair of great dark eyes which sparkled in the chandelier light. She favored her suitors with many bright smiles of such an insincere nature as to bring to mind Mina's "rescue me!" look that first time after her engagement to Quentin had been announced to the Parish. At which point she had been so inundated with well wishers she appeared to be drowning amongst them, desperate for some form of deliverance from her plight as he had watched from a distance, his presence unknown to his friends. He smirked unconsciously. He would be more than glad to oblige this poor woman her wish.

"If you'll beg my pardon."

"Not at all," Dr. Collingsby demurred "Here is my card. If you find you require a surgeon in your travels, do not hesitate to call."

"Thank you, sir." Roger replied, taking the card and slipping it into his watch pocket which had too long sat woefully vacant after his acquisition of wristwatch while in Burma the previous year on reconnaissance for the war.

Roger strode over to the young woman so beleaguered by suitors all vying that they might impress her. Looking up from a foppish young man - still far too much a pup to be even attempting such a coup; such a sorry state for women of the colonies that men such as these believed themselves worthy of a Lady's attentions - she glimpsed the tall, handsome Briton approaching, the first true smile he had seen from her spread across her face. "May I have this dance?" Roger asked, extending a hand to her. She nodded in assent, relief at being liberated from her droll captors shone from her visage. Roger guided her to the dance floor; he could not help secretly reveling in the disappointed faces of the young worshipers who found themselves abandoned by their goddess.

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I did not catch your name." she said provokingly as they swept across the floor.

"That is because I didn't give it." he answered, turning her in a wide circle.

"Do you often ask ladies to dance without so much as an introduction?"

"Only when they appear to require saving from a most unfortunate fate."

"Unfortunate indeed. May I inquire as to the name of my savior?"

"Bond. James Bond. And what is your name, my lady?"

"Miss Imelda Stanton."

"Stanton... am I to presume you are related to the host of the party?"

"Feigning your ignorance of my identity demeans us both," she answered, coyly.

"I assume others have attempted such an act before?"

"Far more often than one would think. I suppose they mean it to be charming, or else to convey that my position was not a factor in their desire to be close to me. However, in reality it is insulting that they should not know me or else it makes them appear ignorant."

"In my defense I have only recently arrived from England and was requested by my employer to attend the event on his behalf. I had not even heard of your father until yesterday. If Dr. Collingsby had not identified you, I should not have known you from Venus but that you were far lovelier."

"Do not say such things!" she gasped, teasingly. "You will bring the jealousy of the gods down upon me!"

"Now that would be unfortunate." Roger smiled in his most debonair fashion, effectively silencing the young woman.

It was another minute before Miss Stanton renewed the conversation, "You said you had only just arrived in town?"

"Yes, only last month."

"Do you intend to remain long?"

"Only another month or two. I hope to be heading back to London before the monsoon rains come."

"I thought the English were accustomed to rain?" she teased.

"Some rain, yes. But not the full rains of a month in the space of a day. It is of no matter anyhow, my business concludes with their onset."

"And what business is that?"

"My employer requested that I examine the new irrigation systems on our plantations to ensure they are functioning properly. After the losses we took these past few years we really cannot afford to have them fail."

"My, that is an important job." she favored him with a smile he knew was meant to capture his heart. "Your employer must think quite highly of you."

"I could not say. Truly I do it out of a favor to him. I recently had a similar system installed on my own property and thus he considers me quite the expert in the matter. He offered me a rather princely sum just to view the works - though, even from my short time here I can assure him his investment was well spent. But that is enough about me. Have you ever been to England?"

"No, but I should very much like to see it someday."

"I daresay you would find it quite a bit different from your current surroundings."

"Still, I should like to go."

"Perhaps someday you may." Roger said, his implication unmistakable - particularly to this vain little witch. He stopped dancing as the music slowed, "I do apologize. It seems I have kept you an extra dance. Your suitors will be most put out. Perhaps we might have another dance later in the evening...?" She made a little frown that almost caused Roger to burst into laughter, clearly her dance card had been filled much to her now disappointment. "Another time?"

"Oh yes! If you would please leave your card with my father, I am certain he will invite you for dinner in the near future."

"I will look forward to that, Miss Stanton." he said, pressing her hand.

* * *

Mr. G. Percival Stanton wasted no time in extending an invitation to a small dinner party at his estate. The letter arrived in the mail only a few days after the ball almost lost entirely in the flurry of letters between himself and Imelda. He guessed in the few days since he had met her she had penned a score of letters to him and he just as many in reply, each carefully calculated to incite the growth of love. If he were not so put off by the young woman's preening vanity he might have felt sorry for her being the object of her father's clearly desperate bid to marry her off to a man of some means. Councilman Stanton was, himself, a rather imposing figure. He was a trim, handsome man, stylish in the Colonial sense. He wore his short blonde hair parted to the side and swept back, a mustache perched just below his aquiline nose. Square jaw and sharp eyes completed the picture. There was little, if any, of him in his daughter - a fact he likely appreciated. She did not seem terribly old, certainly not old enough to require such immediate efforts to gain a suitor, and no more vacuous than any other daughter of privilege - and a great deal prettier than most. It would be far more sensible to send her to England for the season where her exotic mannerisms would be quite the sensation among the gentlemen when paired with her lovely face rather than simply try to catch the first landed Englishman that showed interest. Unless, of course, they could not afford the trip. For all the man's opulent display of wealth, Roger suspected the Councilman was not as financially secure as he pretended to be. A fact which was in accord with the testimony of the Clerk who had claimed the orders for the kidnapping of Mr. Bond, as well as the other missing sailors, had arrived from Mr. Stanton's residence - though he could not say who had given them. He only knew that for every man he brought in he was paid a sum of five guineas - a price he felt more than fair for the purchase of a man's liberty with no questions asked - Roger recalled with distaste. The date of the dinner was set for Friday at six o'clock sharp with a note from Miss Stanton advising he come early that he might have the chance to tour the gardens. He arrived promptly at five.

Roger received a rather cold welcome from the first footman. He was tall, clean-limbed in form and handsome of face with hair and eyes the color of jet and a swarthy complexion suggesting something of the Indian in his background. At his entrance, Imelda, who had stood watching, waiting for his arrival from the railing of the second floor landing broke into a wide grin and ran down the stairs with the same eagerness as a child on Christmas morning, pushing aside the sullen young man she cried, "Oh Mr. Bond, I am so glad you were able to come on such short notice!"

"With such an enticement how could any man refuse?" Roger flattered the young woman. "That is a lovely dress you are wearing."

"Do you think so?" she said more than asked, spinning so that Roger might gain the full effect of the exotic costume as the airy silk billowed about her slender form. "I think it is simply enchanting! The local women call it a ghagra choli. I simply had to have one so father had this one made especially for me. Oh you may go, Alexander." She waived a hand dismissively at the footman who regarded the pair with an expression of cool indifference, though Roger could tell from the crashing look in the young man's eyes the full effect of Imelda's casual cruelty. "Come, let me show you the gardens!" she exclaimed, practically pulling Roger from the foyer by the arm.

"Are you certain your father would not wish to join us?" Roger asked, giving the appearance of only playful resistance to the young woman's physical insistence.

"Oh no, he is far too busy in his office at the moment. He would find the interruption an annoyance."

"Perhaps we should ask anyway." Roger suggested, playfully vexing the girl.  
She stuck out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout, "I am beginning to think you do not wish to spend any time with me."

"My dear girl, I would like nothing better. I simply do not want to risk offending my host."

"He won't be offended." her eyes gleamed with a minx-like mischievousness. "He doesn't even know you are here. I only added the note after he had put the letter in the mail basket."

"You cunning little vixen. But what of the footman?"

"Oh Alexander won't tell. He wouldn't dare risk my displeasure."

"Then, I suppose I am all yours for the hour." Roger said, surrendering himself to Miss Stanton's persuasion.

* * *

"There, that is much better!" she exclaimed, shaking her raven locks free from their bindings so that they hung loose about her face. "Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Bond?" The effect of her ebony hair framing her delicate features tinted with rose from the exertion of the walk was almost enough to make a man take leave of his senses, Roger thought, even a man such as himself.

"You look lovely, Miss Stanton."

"Oh don't call me Miss Stanton! It sounds so solemn."

"What would you prefer I call you then?"

"It would be improper of me to say," Her eyes twinkled as she turned from him in feigned shame (for he knew that was a sensation she wholly lacked), "But if you should discover it I will tell you."

"Is it… Imelda?" Roger asked playing her little game.

"No!"

"Is it Darling, then?"

"No."

"My pearl… or my rose?"

"No, it is nothing like that!" she laughed.

"My dearest, then?"

"No! You will never guess it!"

"I suppose I won't for I have spent all the sentiments I know."

"How very unromantic of you!" she declared. "Come with me." She ordered, taking him by the hand.

"Where are we going?"

"My special place. Only there can I tell you what you should call me." She flashed an alluring smile. Roger allowed himself to be led down the path to a stand of trees at the corner of the garden. Passing through a fence of tall bushes that covered a low stone wall; Roger found himself staring agape at the miniature Eden before him. Strange trees and strong smelling flowering plants filled the alcove. In the center, a tiered fountain bubbled. A mongoose lay curled upon the edge, basking in the warm sun. Peacocks and other plump birds strolled around with scarcely a glance at the strange new interlopers. Even a small Indian deer sat curled underneath the bench which sat below the branches of a squat tree.

"This is magnificent!" Roger breathed.

"Isn't it? Father built it for me as a tenth birthday present. I was so afraid I would never see it again."

"What do you mean?"

"Last year father lost a great deal of money and he told me we might have to leave and move back to England to stay with relatives. I cried for weeks at the thought of leaving my little garden. But then, a few months ago, father said everything had been taken care of and we would not have to leave India afterall."

"Did he say why?"

"No," she tilted her head, perplexed at the strange question. "Why would he?"

"No reason." He should have figured her father would not divulge such secrets to such a vapid thing as this. Suddenly a veil of flowers flew over him. He felt himself pulled toward the young beauty.

"Now, I believe I promised you something..." she smiled, her hands pulling the scarf that wrapped him closer so that she was almost against his chest.

"Ah yes," he answered. "You were going to tell me what you would prefer to be called."

"Yours." she proclaimed, wrapping her arms about his neck. She nestled her head against his chest. Instinctively his hands found her waist, felt the swell of her hips.

"Imelda." he said huskily, looking down at the raven haired beauty pressed against him. Suddenly the image of Mina mocking him brought him back to himself. She occupied far too great a place in his thoughts lately. Most likely it was the news of her upcoming wedding that had caused the trouble. A wedding of convenience to be sure. Men such as he only married for convenience - though that was not to say he hadn't seen others of his ilk tolerably happy in their domesticity, surrounded by their children and tended by their affectionate spouse. And certainly there was no shortage of that between them. Affection. Good regard. But what was a marriage without passion. They were well suited, he could not deny that, but still the image of her at the alter with him made him burn with... what? Jealousy? As if he had anything to be jealous of. It was simply the perversity of the thing that galled him. For all her feigned independence of mind and spirit she had consented to marry a man she did not love to fulfill familial expectations.

He felt a soft press against his lips. "James, where did you go just now?" the young woman asked, withdrawing her mouth from his.

"It is no matter, I am back now." he said stroking her hair from her face. If anyone had ever been jealous it had been her - always chastising him about his dalliances. What was she to him anyhow? Another kiss filled his mind: cold, clammy - lips rough, chapped by the sun and thirst - a kiss that had never meant a thing was never supposed to mean a thing. The feeling of her hand in his as they sat on the rocky Worthing shores watching the sun set. What was it that held him so bothered, and precisely when it was the least prudent to be so. A seduction would guarantee him Miss Stanton's cooperation in sneaking him into the house for the night - why did he hesitate? It wasn't as though she had any virtue to preserve.

"Is something the matter, James." Imelda asked, evidently put-out by his inattention.

"No." He said, stroking a finger across her cheek with some mental effort. He caught a glimpse of his watch. "It is only that I am afraid we have quite run out of time." he turned the gadget toward her so she might confirm his excuse.

"Father won't mind if we are late. My maid will only say I am out in the garden and you might use a lame horse as an excuse." she pleaded.

"I might, but I would prefer to be punctual. It is very important to me that I make a good impression on your father." Roger said pointedly in answer to her pout. "Perhaps another time. But when you are mine I intend you to be so forever, so if you would let me work to ensure it." The very words with their implication set his flesh on edge with disgust. As if any Englishman would take such a woman for a wife - a few nights, perhaps, but never more than that - and he doubted an Indian man would feel any differently... but for one whom she cut to ribbons for the audacity of entertaining such an emotion. For the young woman the effect was quite opposite, a dazzling flush washed over her, almost completely erasing her disappointment. She jibbered ceaselessly about romantic nonsense as they walked back toward the house. Conversation Roger paid no heed to as he contemplated how he would get into the house without her assistance.


	4. Chapter 4

The dinner conversation was as bland as the supper itself. Perhaps it was merely meant to impress an English guest with the cook's perception of English cuisine, but this meal was less an homage than a caricature. It was a wonder how anyone from a country of so many spices could produce dishes so devoid of flavor. And why a stottie cake? Roger had regarded the ugly lump of bread ruefully. A lump of baked dough that disappointed the pallet and sat in the stomach like a leaden weight. What could criminal bend could possess a cook to serve a stone in the guise of bread instead of the infinitely superior naan? That flat bread of unusual shape with the internal texture of a cloud and a taste like heaven. Roger amused himself by casting little glances at his comely neighbor who would immediately avert her eyes from him and turn the most amusing shade of rose. At one point, as the one of the guests launched into a detailed lecture (for conversation would be a word suggesting the permission of other to speak on the topic) on the finer points of Chopin's scherzo in C sharp minor and how it was far more evocative than Beethoven's Fifth, he snuck his hand under the table and interlocked his fingertips with hers to such effect that she seemed unable to determine how to react for a full minute. Roger conjectured this might have been the first time she was put in a position of wielding no power over her suitor - a position she was in no manner prepared for. From the other side of the table, leaning over the host with a silver platter, Alexander glared icily at him. He must've been the first - no other man would be so offended by her behavior. What was it to her patron if the harlot acted the harlot? Wasn't he already aware of what she was; had he not made some peace with it? Roger almost pitied the man, but rather than show mercy he whispered a little flattering nothing into his companion's reddened ear. Mercy was for those men who were far more attentive to their surroundings than he was supposed to be. He was a man wholly absorbed in a new love, afterall - such men would not notice a cliff were their beloved to guide them over it. A sidewise glance revealed Alexander's seething fury: had his eyes been daggers Roger would surely be cut to ribbons at this moment.

* * *

With supper ended the men retired to the smoking room where conversation flowed far more freely when lubricated with the liberal application of brandy and fine cigars. "So Mr... Bond, was it?" a stout older gentleman by the name of Wilkins slurred in a half-drunken stupor.

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Bond." he drolled. "Mr. Stanton has told me you are here to observe the irrigation works."

"Yes, my partner requested that I make certain they were being properly installed."

"Seems you got the worser end of the partnership!" Mr. Wilkins guffawed. "Stuck in this godforsaken place with these barbarous people!"

"I have found the natives to be quite pleasant."

"Sure! They're all 'yes sir' 'thank you, sir' to your face, but turn your back for a moment and they're off loafing again. Or worshiping cows. Did you know they worship cows?"

"I was aware, yes."

"Fat, stupid animals and here they treat them as gods. I had hell to get a proper prime rib in this town."

"I would imagine."

"And then half my staff walked out over it! Can you imagine? Over a slab of beef! Good riddance to them anyhow, bunch of lazy good for nothings. And they're worse in the fields, let me tell you! Here we were in a drought and when I go to the fields the cotton is more dead than alive. I call the nearest man over and I ask him, very politely mind you, why the cotton is dying. And you know what he says? 'There's been no rain, sir. The crops don't have enough water to grow.' Well I know that! Any fool with eyes knows that! I want to know why you aren't fetching water for them - I mean there must be water somewhere if you're still alive to be impudent to your master, right Greg?" from his position lounging in an easy chair, Mr. Stanton nodded. "Well he says their water comes from the well in town. I tell him to water my crops with that but he says that will dry the well. So I say there must be water somewhere on this bloody continent! He says there are springs in the mountains, so I tell him to go there and get water for my cotton. The ingrate actually said it was too far! Can you believe it? I dismissed him outright with a good drubbing. The others took note, that is for sure."

"But it did not change the distance of the mountains." Mr. Stanton said.

"No, but it taught them not to give their master any lip." Wilkins replied.

"You still lost the crop."

"As did we all. But I kept their respect." Wilkins rejoined.

Stanton didn't respond immediately, only taking another sip of brandy, "This isn't Barbados, Wilf."

"No, a proper Barbadan would have walked to the mountains and fetched the water. Or died along the way."

"Or else died by the overseers hand. I should think we are more civilized than that."

"You're too soft on them, Greg. Look at that half breed you keep as a footman. He walks about like he owns the place."

"Alexander is my steward's son and has thus far served me well."

"An adopted street urchin. He serves you well only because his native nature hasn't revealed itself. I've seen how he stares at your daughter. Mark me, it's a miracle you don't have a quadroon by now." As soon as it was said, Wilkins knew he had gone too far. "I'm sorry, Greg, I didn't mean to imply anything by it. Only that these are people not bound by Christian morals and... well she's a very beautiful girl and-"

Stanton's visage darkened at this statement, lightning flashed in his eyes. "Regardless of your intent, I would ask you not further impugn my daughter's honor by your implications. Particularly not in front of my guest." Wilf paled at the reminder of Roger's presence whom he had forgotten in his inebriated state. Roger nodded. "I do apologize, Mr. Bond. Mr. Wilkins sometimes forgets himself when he has had too much to drink."

"There is no need to apologize, Mr. Stanton. Perhaps some buttered bread might bring him to his senses." Roger suggested. Mr. Stanton nodded in agreement.

"Alexander, please bring us a plate of cheese sandwiches." Stanton ordered the young man who had stood silently at attention by the door until this moment. Roger was struck by a sudden pang at the mention of the dish of choice. "I do apologize, I don't have any proper English Cheddar for you. We will have to make do with paneer."

"It is no matter, it will serve its purpose. You mentioned you lost your crops in the drought as well?" Roger said, taking a measured sip of brandy.

"Yes, it seems all we have done since '76 is lose our crops. We've only had a handful of good years and even those would hardly qualify for the term."

"That must have been quite a blow. It is remarkable you were able to afford the irrigation project."

"I was fortunate, a highly profitable venture came my way and I seized upon it." he said conspiratorially as he took another sip. "We have not all been so fortunate." Stanton nodded to the unfortunate man consuming an inordinate number of sandwiches. "And to further our misery Parliament has seen fit to grant us no relief from our tax burdens. I suspect it is their goal to force us to sell to them."

"I have had the same suspicion, myself, though my partner is less inclined to believe such evil. Still, it feels as though I am merely saving some government agent a little work. It is of little consequence, though, fortunately our investments are diversified enough that even should one fall we should not be brought to ruin."

"At least the trip will not be wholly wasted." Mr. Stanton intimated, turning his eyes to an oversized portrait of Imelda which adorned the wall.

"No, I suspect not."

"You said you were from London?"

"Scotland, actually. But I maintain a house in London. I find Scotland only agrees with me in the Summer months. And even then only for shearing season."

"You are in woolens then?"

"My family began in woolens, yes, but I have since expanded into cotton."

"A wise investment."

"I've begun to question that as of late with the droughts here and the volatility of the American market I'm starting to wonder if it is worth the risk."

"It is that very volatility in the Americas that makes it worth the risk to invest in Indian cotton."

"How do you mean?"

"Well consider two decades ago after they burned their entire cotton crop and then began that silly war, I was getting almost 30 pence per pound of cotton."

"And now it is stagnant at 6 pence per pound which scarcely makes it worth the effort given the losses we've suffered and the expense of irrigation."

"True enough, but it is just as likely they will again manage to find themselves embroiled in another war of some type or some other nonsense"

"Unfortunately, I cannot bank on that possibility." Roger answered solemnly.

"Perhaps you should consider diversifying your assets. There has been an ever growing demand for Opium, particularly in the Chinese market."

"There could be merit in that idea. Might I see your books?"

"Certainly. If you would just follow me to my office?"

"That's very generous of you."

"Nonsense. It seems I may have some personal reasons to wish to see you succeed." Mr. Stanton suggested. "Mr. Wilkins, Mr. Bond and I will return momentarily, please excuse us." Mr. Stanton said to Mr. Wilkins, but there was no need for Mr. Wilkins was snoring softly from the settee and appeared unlikely to notice their departure or return.

Mr. Stanton led Roger to the third floor where his office was located. The large room was painted in white, which, rather than giving it a stark appearance, when combined with the wall of large windows that overlooked the balcony made the room appear even more spacious. Stanton reached into his watch pocket and procured a small key. "You never can be too careful." he said, unlocking the wide drawer and pulling out a green ledger and opening it. "As you can see here: demand has been steadily increasing for the past few years," Stanton ran his finger down the ledger. Roger stood at his shoulder, nodding at the falsified numbers - for he knew quite well from his time in Hong Kong that the market for opium imports from India had shown little change these past years with the Imperial government unofficially turning a blind eye to local farmers recent efforts to cultivate the crop on Chinese soil. Further the book listed the port of trade at Shanghai. Roger's brow furrowed. Why would Stanton willingly choose to sail almost 2,000 miles more up the Chinese coast rather than utilize the British port at Hong Kong? Casting a glance at the open drawer he noticed the wood of the base did not quite contact the wood of the side - a false bottom! The clock which sat upon the gold veined marble mantelpiece chimed the hour. "Ah, we had best return to the parlour, the women will be waiting for us to join them." Stanton said, snapping the slender book closed and returning it to it's place in the drawer.

"What should we do in regards to Mr. Wilkins?" Roger inquired.

"We'll leave him, he'll join us when he is ready. It is far easier to play cards with an even number of people."

* * *

The evening finally concluded as the clock struck 10pm after a heated game of whist inwhich Mrs. Wilkins and Stanton won handily though this could be accounted to the young lovers lack of focus on the game. Mr. Wilkins strolled in somewhere near the end of the first round and complained somewhat halfheartedly about not having been included though Stanton maintained he would have waited but the other man had been far too absorbed in a book and he had hated to disturb him over such a trivial thing as cards. By the end of the third round Roger was quite sick to death of his partner and her preening flirtations - fortunately, come tomorrow they should no longer be his concern. He climbed into the carriage, but not before stealing a quick kiss from the young lady which caused her to go a-flutter and the footman to fix Roger with a furious glare.

As the carriage rounded the corner Roger exited the carriage through the opposite door, lying covered by the tall grass until the Wilkins's carriage passed by and the light that spilled from the hall onto the stairs had been vanquished by the closing of the main door. He stealthily ran to the side of the house, pressing his body against the cool stone wall he slithered around the edge of the building to the window of the kitchen, still open in an attempt to mitigate the heat. The voices of the servants finishing their supper spilled out into the cool night air. He ducked under the sill and continued on until he reached the parlour window. It was shut. He pushed it gently and it gave way with little resistance. He smiled, glad none of the servants had noticed that while the window was shut and the lock turned, the catch for the lock sat ever so slightly above the little circular latch. He crept through the window into the darkened room and deftly made his way up the stairway, suddenly a door opened behind him. Roger flattened himself against the wall. A dark form stood in relief from the bright light behind him.

"Oh Alexander, don't leave angry - it would break my heart!" Imelda pleaded with the dark form.

"Then answer my question." the young man answered, his voice gruff. "Do you intend to marry that sod?"

"Don't call him that!" she cried.

"That's not an answer." he replied.

"I don't see why I shouldn't." she answered haughtily. Roger watched the footman's face turn to a bitter scowl. He turned to leave but a pair of white hands grabbed his arm.

"No, please don't go!" she begged once more, embracing his arm against her form. He roughly shook her from his arm and stormed down the hall staring at the floor with his black eyes, looking neither to the right nor left. Alexander did not even flinch as the door slammed behind him. Roger winced instinctively at the sound of china crashing against the door. He quickly left the scene before a maid might be rung for to clean the mess.

Arriving at the entrance to the office, Roger produced a set of lock picks from an internal pocket in his sleeve and made short work of the lock. He scanned the room before entering. Light from the outside lamps gave the illusion of movement but no one appeared. Still, on entering he made certain to check the room for anyone who might be concealed - he had made such an error once and had survived only by sheer luck, he was not keen to repeat the scene. Finding no one he crept to the desk, careful to stay low in the shadows. The picks easily conquered the small desk lock. Roger silently placed the ledger on the desktop; he then felt for the gap he had seen on the edge of drawer base. Sensing the slight break between the wooden pieces he inserted a pick, twisted it, and carefully lifted the edge of the wooden board until he was able to get his fingers underneath it. Ever so gently, he removed the heavy board and placed it on top of the desk. The light from the window shone its singular glow into the exposed drawer revealing a second ledger identical to the first. He took the book and laid it out on the desk where the pale light shone brightest. He read:

Jan. 26 1886

The Clarabell

1 WM26 11st. 5'7" 300 Lsd

1 NM32 13st. 6'3" 100 Lsd

1 IM20 8.5st. 5'2" 50 Lsd

1 IF22 7st. 5'1" 25 Lsd

1 WM19 9.3st. 5'5" 300 Lsd

A bracket spanned the five entries, tying the numbers and names together with one on the opposite side: Port Hamilton. Roger puzzled a moment over the code before coming to what was the most likely meaning. W, N, and I stood in for White, Negroid, and Indian; the second entry of M or F was clearly meant to indicate gender; from there weight and height were recorded as well as a sum of pounds. From the appearance of it Councilman Stanton was selling human beings! Roger quickly flipped open the first ledger to the date of January 26, noting the entry he began to furiously scan the pages preceding the date until he found what he was looking for - he turned between the two pages to be certain. In April of 1885 Stanton had recorded a sale of Opium to Hong Kong of nine piculs; the same as was recorded in January with the same price listed: 775 Lsd. Roger frowned. What sort of fool had Stanton taken him for? Any Indian child would have noticed the ledger was doctored - Opium production did not even begin until February! Roger supposed it was Stanton's belief that no British man of business would question his numbers, typically being woefully ignorant of the actual affairs of agriculture beyond that acreage produced yields. He was covering the profits from his illicit business with false opium sales! By claiming they were putting to port in Shanghai, no one would question the extra two days it required to instead put in at Port Hamilton in Chosen. Still, it was a strange choice in location - he doubted Chosen had any use for such conspicuous labor; they certainly would not be eager to take the risk given the sour state of relations between the two countries.

Roger flipped through a few more pages:

April 15 1886

The Sirius

1 WM30 13st. 6' 300 Lsd

1 WM18 10st. 5'6" 300 Lsd

Below these twelve other entries of the like, all beginning with WM followed by a number sat tied together once more by the two words: Port Hamilton. It seemed Stanton had realized there was greater profit to be made by trading solely in white men and had decided to pursue that end.

Roger turned to the last entry, dated May 1 1886 - three days after the disappearance of Lt. Comm. Hoople. Amongst the ten entries listed one, sixth down read in neatly inked print:  
1 WM23 9st. 5'5" 300 Lsd

The description was a match for Hoople. A fortnight had passed since the Clarabell had left port bound for Chosen, they would have likely arrived by now - too late to intercept the ship. Roger exhaled a deep sigh. If Chosen were the final destination perhaps Agent Lyong might be able to track them down but were it not they would be long gone by now. He would have to telegraph Gun as soon as might be managed. Satisfied, Roger placed the ledger back in the drawer and replaced the false bottom returning the doctored ledger to its original position he closed the drawer and locked it. Suddenly he saw a soft light below the door soon followed by the sound of footsteps in the hallway - someone was coming! Not wanting to be discovered he slid one of the tall windows open and slipped out the crack onto the balcony. Unwrapping a length of flat rope he had wrapped next to his holster, Roger found the middle and placed the crux at the base of the thick concrete baluster closest to the wall's edge. He then slid the rope ends under the opposite sides of the baluster and, gasping both ends together to form one taut line, he stepped over the balustrade onto the narrow ledge and leaned back. Then he stepped off the ledge.

He fell only for a moment, catching himself just below the ledge. Above him the balcony was bathed in the light emanating from the office windows. As he slowly climbed down the rope a sound arrested his movement. To his left he saw a window open only three spans from where he hung. From within Imelda reveled her nightgowned form to the darkness; she sighed, leaning her form against the window so her upper body stuck out from within. Roger froze, willing his very breath to stop in the hopes she would not notice him. She stared up at the sky with a youthful earnestness, "Oh dearest Northstar I pray you would grant me my wish that I might soon be united with my love, that he will not delay in seeing me once more. Oh Northstar I wish that he might take me away and make me his bride!" Her exclamation startled a sparrow roosting nearby causing him to take flight. Imelda's entranced gaze followed the bird as it alighted and flew toward the balcony, just passing by the man who hung precariously from the upper balcony. For a moment Imelda stared at the strange sight uncomprehending of its meaning. Then her eyes narrowed. She screamed.

"Blast" Roger ejaculated. There was no sense in attempting a stealthy escape now. He released his grip on the rope, falling the few remaining feet to the balcony below. He glanced above him to see Imelda still at the window, now flanked by Alexander and an imposing looking guard.

"There he is!" she cried, pointing to him. He made for the balustrade. It was at least a fifteen foot drop to the ground below. He looked up again in time to see Imelda gasp as Alexander leapt from the window ledge onto the balcony with him. The other man landed lightly, instantly pulling a knife. There was no time to devise another route - Roger leapt over the edge of the balcony.

He felt the hard jab of his knee as it went into his chest. He rolled as he hit the ground, his right arm apparently unable to support his weight. He felt a stabbing pain in his shoulder as it hit the ground. Instinctively he reached over to the spot and felt the handle of a throwing knife embedded in his flesh. The sound of brush crashing behind him told him his pursuer had followed his path. Another knife flew by him, just missing his ear. Quickly, he pulled the knife from his shoulder and flew across the gardens toward the far corner that was Imelda's daring not to spend a second to look behind. As he reached the garden he started up the squat tree whose overhanging branches were just close enough to the wall to use as a means to scale it. A knife stuck in the tree where his back had been only a heartbeat before. Roger turned and threw his own blade back at its former owner - at the moment eternally thankful to his creator that he was left-handed. The bloodied knife found its mark in Alexander's leg, causing him to falter. Roger wasted not a moment, vaulting over the garden wall into the tall grass of the field behind.


	5. Chapter 5

At the door of the chemist's shop such persistent knocking could be heard it finally forced the old man from his bed. Lighting a candle, he bumbled down the stairway to the front door. "Now who could it be at this hour?" he muttered as he unbolted the lock. A tall man stumbled in from the darkness, his shoulder cupped by his opposite hand, giving his gait a lurching appearance. He almost knocking the elder man over in his haste to get inside.

"Dr. Collinsby," he growled more than spoke. "I have need of your assistance."

"Mr. Bond!" the old man was taken aback. Even in the dim candlelight he could see the dark liquid squelching up from between the fingers of the other man's hand. "What happened to you? Please, have seat, let me have a look." Roger sat down on the stool offered as Dr. Collingsby divested him of his coat and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, sliding the enlarged neck opening down around his elbows revealing the criss-cross of scars that were the marks of his profession. It seemed somewhat strange to Roger that the doctor did not remove the shirt entirely, but a jolt of pain from his shoulder left that particular curiosity where it lay as his breath caught. The doctor lit a lamp and shone it over the injury, prodding it with a slender probe. Roger winced at the touch of the cold metal.

"Now, you'll need to hold still." Dr. Collingsby said. "I need to see how bad the wound is before I treat it. This will hurt." Roger felt the chill of liquid being poured onto his flesh followed by blinding pain that caused him to jolt. His arms, caught in the binding at his elbows, only flew so far as to cause the loss of a button from the sudden strain - it popped of and rolled behind a heavy wooden table.

"Gah!" Roger cried through gritted teeth. "You might have warned me."

"I told you it would hurt." the doctor remarked, seemingly unconcerned by the other man's pain. "I needed to disinfect the wound. You'll be glad of it in a moment." Sure enough, once the searing pain had subsided the area became numb. While Roger could still feel the sensation of the probe inside his shoulder, it no longer caused him any great discomfort. "It appears you were lucky, the knife only nicked an artery. I'll have to cauterize it. You'll need this." Dr. Collingsby handed his patient a thick leather strap. Roger eyed the man and then the strap. "I was practicing medicine in the fields of battle before you were born Mr. Bond. You may trust I know my profession." the doctor said, watching impassively as he held the probe over the candle until it glowed a bright orange. "Now bite down on the strap." Roger did as he was told. A moment later he felt the searing pain of the probe as it entered his shoulder and touched the opened artery. His neck muscles bugled as he clamped the leather between his teeth, stifling a scream. After what felt like an eternity but must have only been mere seconds the scorching pain lessened as the doctor removed the probe. Roger spat out the leather strap, panting from exertion, sweat covered his body. The doctor placed a handheld microscope to his eye and peered once more into the wound. He poured a cooling liquid into the wound and then peered once more into it. Finally, he leaned back and placed the little brass cylinder and brown bottle on the small table beside him and picked up a curved needle and, holding it up to his eye, threaded it with a piece of catgut. "That appears to have done it. Now all that remains is to stitch you up." Roger winced slightly as the needle pierced his skin. "I take it Mr. Stanton was none to pleased about your activities." Dr. Collingsby said as he stitched.

"No, I wager he was not."

"That footman of his may look docile but he is a tiger on a chain." Roger nodded in agreement. "He's lethal with those throwing knives. You were fortunate."

"I take it I am not the first to have crossed Mr. Stanton."

"No, a number of thieves have thought they might test their luck on the place over the years - I am certain I do not need to tell you the results of such gambles. As you are now well aware." Dr. Collingsby cut the remaining thread at the knot. "Still, it does make a man miss his younger days. But, alas, I am far too old for such intrigues now." he sighed, applying a dressing to the wound. "My assistant speaks highly of you, Mr. Bond."

"Your assistant."

"Yes, Vikram... you might know him better as The Sikh. He's been my loyal aide de campe since the First Anglo-Sikh war." Dr. Collingsby supplied. Roger's head swam with the new information, focus impeded by the loss of blood and numbing agents.

"The Sikh... then that would mean you are..."

"Yes. But we can speak more on that in the morning."

"There's no time!" Roger argued, the fog in his mind clearing slightly. "We need to telegraph Agent Pyong in Chosen. Stanton's been kidnapping the missing sailors and shipping them to Port Hamilton."

"That is indeed very grave. I will contact him immediately. But you must get some rest." the doctor's tone suggested there was no further objection to be made though Roger attempted but found he was unequal to the task. "Come now, the couch will have to do," he said, guiding Roger to a worn sofa against the wall. Despite the swarming thoughts of the case Roger quickly found himself in a deep slumber.

* * *

It could not have been more than an hour before he felt a gentle shaking on his shoulder. He blinked open his heavy eyelids to see the concerned visage of Dr. Collingsby standing before him. It took a moment before Roger could understand what it was he was seeing or recall why he was there, "Doctor...?" he asked groggily.

"I have just spoken to the police in Chosen."

"The police...?" Roger was confused by this. "Why not Agent Pyong?"

"James, Agent Pyong is dead."

Roger shot awake at that pronouncement, "Dead! How?"

"There was an explosion on a Dutch trading ship he was investigating and he was killed in the blast as well as Agent Kim."

"Gun... dead." Roger held his throbbing head.

"He was a friend of yours?"

"Yes, from my time in Hong Kong. We uncovered a smuggling ring. His poor wife. If he and Kim are gone then who do we have in Chosen?"

"Only Willis and he is on mission to China. To make the matter worse Stanton's men are searching for you. You must have been recognized."

Roger rubbed a hand over his eyes recalling the scene, "Yes, I suppose so."

"So you've been discovered... that is troublesome. Were you able to find out what had happened to Lt. Com. Hoople?"

"He was kidnapped... by Stanton's men. Stanton was paying off the innkeeper at the Queen Victoria to provide him with sailors. I don't think the clerk realized Hoople was an officer or he likely would not have taken him. He keeps a ledger in a secret compartment of his desk, underneath a false drawer bottom." Roger gritted his teeth as jolt of pain tore across his shoulder. "He's been kidnapping people and selling them since January - at least a hundred, maybe more - and disguising it as opium sales to Shanghai."

"Do you believe Stanton would be able to figure out what you were there for?"

"I took the utmost care to restore things as I had found them; but a man with any sense would dispose of the ledger just to be certain."

The doctor nodded in agreement, "Who knew of Stanton's business?"

"The Clerk at the inn knew he was being paid by someone in the main house, but he couldn't say who."

"Where you able to determine which ships Mr. Stanton employed?"

Roger shifted uncomfortably, "The Clarabell and the Sirius. The Clarabell left port two weeks ago with a shipment I believe included Lt. Comm. Hoople."

"It is just as well, the captain of the Clarabell is no better than a pirate - likely worse by most standards - there's no information to be gained from him. He's too clever to reveal his involvement in any criminal enterprise no matter the enticement. But Capt. Wolf... he might be persuaded... Though there's still the matter of locating our missing citizens."

"If I might volunteer myself for the mission? My position here is already compromised. The longer I remain, the more danger I bring of discovery of our organization."

"You are the most familiar with the case, I will grant you - but are you fit for travel?"

"I've gone further with worse. And on the back of a temperamental camel at that." Roger managed something of a smile at the memory of his first International mission to Algeria - what a mess that had been! What was supposedly an insurance investigation in the massacre of twenty Frenchmen who had been building a telegraph line by a tribe of Tunis had revealed itself to be quite a bit more than anticipated. He should have known better than to believe the initial report and they should have known better than to attempt to forcibly conscript a spy. Though it was the Tunis who gave him the large scar on the left side of his chest. He had been fortunate after two weeks of travel to come upon a contingent of British soldiers who had not yet been dispatched to fight the Boers - he had very little memory of what transpired after that but that when he awoke he had been assigned to their detail for the remainder of the war; which was, thankfully, a blessedly short time for his Dutch had never been especially convincing.

"I can get you as far as the train station - I know they are watching the port, you will have no chance of escape by ship. I should be able to get you a berth on a merchant marine ship bound for Port Hamilton in Calcutta."

"Ugh. Americans." Roger attempted to get up from the couch but instantly fell back down. "Augh!" he cried gripping his shoulder.

"You'll have to be careful of your wound. I can give you a kit in case you tear the stitches."

"You anticipate trouble?"

"Stanton is a powerful man in these parts. You toyed with his daughter's heart and his secrets - he will not let such transgressions pass." Roger nodded. Dr. Collingsby pulled out his pocket watch, "The first train will leave an hour before dawn... we'll leave and hour before that - it will take us about that long to get to the station using the back streets. You had better try to get some sleep in the meantime - I daresay you'll need it."

* * *

It felt as though no time at all had passed from the moment Dr. Collingsby had left until Roger once more felt himself shook awake. "It's time." the elder man whispered. Roger did not answer back, he only nodded and pulled himself up from the couch wincing once more as he felt the pull of the stitches in his shoulder. Dr. Collingsby handed the younger man a cloak and, donning one himself, led Roger out of the back door of the shop. The pair followed the twisting back streets of Bombay, still almost black in the early morning hours. A cold fog shifted around their heels, not yet ready to fully spawn and envelope the alleys in its smoky coolness. Roger was careful to sidestep a man who lay across a narrow dirt path between buildings, one of which had the florid reek of the Opium Den. A dog who had been licking at the man's leg fled on their approach. From his condition Roger could not immediately determine whether the man was dead or merely sleeping, so like a corpse did he look.

As he stepped beyond the man a skeletal hand grabbed his leg, "Give us a few pence mate?" the man rasped in a thick Australian accent.

Roger stared at the man, unbelieving. "Walker? Is that you?"

"Bond?" a singular awareness flashed within those clouded eyes.

"James, we need to hurry! There isn't much time!" Dr. Collingsby insisted, physically urging Roger forward.

"But it's Mick Walker! We have to do something for him." though even as he said it Walker was getting further from his aid.

"There's nothing we can do."

"Bond!" the pathetic figure cried out his outstretched arm shaking as he reached for his former comrade. "James! Help me! Just a few pounds to get me through! Bond!" The man's cries echoed down the alley. A familiar face revealed itself from the doorway of the opium den, it watched as Roger and the doctor hurried away down the alley.

"Dost... it seems this time I have seen you first." he hissed through his missing tooth.


	6. Chapter 6

"What happened to him?" Roger inquired as they hurried along the alley.

"I don't know all the details. It was a bad case. There was a couple in Malta who were taking in half-breed aboriginal children. They were supposed to be finding them adoptive homes but we had reason to suspect they were selling the children to brothels and as slave labor. They were not." Dr. Collingsby stated, his visage grim. "When a pair of prospective parents, longtime friends of the Ambassador, complained they had not yet received their promised son the agency quickly found none of the children had been placed with adoptive parents. They decided to set up an operation to uncover where the children were being sent. Two mulatto boys and a quadroon girl were sent on a ship to Malta, accompanied by Agent Walker who was to pose as a child broker, if you will. After he had left the children with the couple he watched the house and waited. I cannot tell you what instinct caused him to go back to the house in the early dawn hours of the second day nor precisely what he saw there. The report only claims he was forced to kill the couple in self-defense and no one was willing to question the account." the old doctor shook his head slowly. "I suppose he was quite attached to the children for he made certain all three received proper Christian burials at great personal cost. When the investigation was completed they found the burned bones of at least twenty children buried on the property but we suspect there were a good deal more - records showed thirty-four had been sent. Agent Walker was to return home to Australia to be debriefed but when the boat stopped in Bombay he left the ship and never returned. We sent out a search for him and found him in an opium den where he had apparently been for two weeks. We have tried everything we could to help him but I fear whatever horror he saw in that house ruined his mind."

Roger nodded, lacking the words to say. He could not help but recall the earnest young agent. How nervous he had gotten when they had met with the weird old aborigine woman whom they had heard might know the whereabouts of Chapman! She had proven perhaps the strangest informant he had ever interviewed. At first she had denied any knowledge of Chapman but invited he and Walker in for breakfast while laughing at the idea that anyone might think she knew anything of such a thing as she mashed the karol. Suddenly her eyes had rolled back and she fell into a trance. In an otherworldly voice she narrated the way that proved to be to Chapman's cabin. Roger thought little of such theatrics - simply memories the old woman did not wish to openly acknowledge; but Walker had grasped, with white-knuckled fist, onto the cross he wore round his neck. Walker was a good one. Would've followed Roger into the Outback had the elder agent not expressly forbade him from following - Chapman was not one to be trifled with, a second agent would likely prove a greater liability than boon if the murderer's hideaway were found. It was a tragedy to see him in such a pitiable state. Roger glanced behind him though he knew Walker had disappeared long ago behind the labyrinth of twists and turns of the business district.

"Hold a moment." Collingsby said, raising a hand. "Take off your cloak, the station guards will think nothing of two men of business." Roger did as he was told, handing the cloak to Dr. Collingsby who draped it over his arm with its twin. From somewhere in the distance a train whistle blew. The doctor peered around the corner, looking this way and that before motioning to proceed. As both men joined the crowds of the main road they instantly took on an air of casual importance as though there were nothing amiss for them to trouble themselves with.

Approaching the station they were stopped by the guards. "Is there a problem?" Dr. Collingsby asked, a hint of irritation in his tone. "My son needs to catch this train."

"We'll need to see his identification." the guard replied stonily.

"Might I inquire as to why you have chosen to insult us in this manner?" Collingsby spoke with increasing impatience as the train pulled into the station.

"There was a man of similar description who robbed Councilman Stanton's house last night."

"So you suspect my son of being such a man? How dare you sir! I take exception to your accusation!"

"It's not an accusation, we simply need to see his papers." the guard persisted. Roger tensed, getting ready to run. The game was up for certain.

"And how might I ask is it not an accusation? Fine! Here! You can clearly see this is my son, Ralph." Collingsby said, producing passports for both. The guard quickly glanced over them, clearly feeling the pressure from the trains arrival combined with the elderly gentleman's outrage. He handed the passports back to the doctor. "Is everything in order then?" he asked harshly.

"Yes, sir." the guard answered, allowing them passage.

"I think you should be insulted, Mr. Bond." Dr. Collignsby whispered with a jovial glint in his eye.

"Why is that?" Roger inquired.

"Apparently the guard thought you looked like a man of sixty." Collingsby chuckled. Roger could not help but smile at that. After purchasing his ticket Dr. Collingsby shook Roger's hand. "I'm afraid this is where I must leave you Mr. Bond. Do take care of yourself."

"You as well."

The final boarding whistle blew, Roger settled himself in a seat by the window, watching the platform with mild disinterest. Suddenly a loud voice from the gate caught his attention.

"Sir, we'll need you to hold this train."

"On whose authority?" the guard bristled.

Roger turned in his seat to see a familiar tall, slender figure accosting the guard. Next to him stood a scrawny Indian man in yellowed robes - even at this distance Roger could see the gap between his greenish teeth. Behind them a contingent of guards stood awaiting orders.

"On Councilman G. Percival Stanton's." Alexander stated, producing a document bearing the Councilman's seal. "We have it on good authority that a thief who broke into his house last night was spotted on his way to this station. A Mr. James Bond. Have you seen him?"

"No sir." the guard replied.

"Have you checked everyone?"

"I have sir." Alexander looked at the traitor by his side who, in his terror swore up and down as to the veracity of his information.

"Still, we would like to search the train just to be certain." Alexander's tone made it quite clear this was in no manner a request. The guard's shoulders squared, Roger could readily imagine the impotent rage darkening his countenance.

"As you wish, sir." the guard growled, making an exaggerated gesture indicating they could pass. Alexander loped by him, clearly favoring his left leg. He was followed closely by his desperate Judas and the contingent of guards.

"Damnation! I'd better make myself scarce." Roger mumbled to himself, getting up from his seat and quickly making his way to the front of the car where he shimmied up the pole to the roof and flattened himself on the bib just before the cupola. Beneath him he could hear Alexander's uneven gait as he boarded the train. Minutes passed and once more he heard the sound, heavier, as if angry.

"There's no sign of him, sir." the guards reported.

"You filthy cutpurse!" Roger heard the sound of scuffling followed by the distinct hollow clang of a body being slammed against metal. "You lied to me."

"No! I swear it was him! I wasn't the only one who saw him! Go to the Opium den, there is a man out front in the street who will vouch for it."

"We don't have time for these shenanigans!" Alexander growled, Roger heard the man fall to the floor. "If Bond escapes Mr. Stanton will be very displeased."

"He's here!" the desperate voice cried as Alexander walked down the steps in the stilted manner of one who must favor one leg over the other. The final whistle blew as the train began to slowly move down the track. Roger could see his old friend tugging at Alexander's coat, "He's only hiding! I swear if you only look-" Alexander's fist cracked the man to the ground where he lay sprawled out on his back.

"That's enough out of you!" the footman warned. The beggarly man's eyes stared in terror at the face of his attacker and then something caught his attention. His eyes locked with Roger's and narrowed,

"There he is!" he cried, pointing to the roof of the train that was slowly pulling away. Roger scrambled to get behind the cupola but it was too late; Alexander turned, catching sight of Roger he fell into a run.

"Guards!" he shouted indicating they should follow him. Even injured the man was surprisingly fast, Roger watched as he swung himself up onto the second car. Behind him three of the guards managed to leap aboard the final train car. Roger stood and began to run, he had to get off the roof before Alexander could climb up or he would be a sitting duck as it were for that man's knives. Suddenly a blade tore through his coat. Roger glanced back to see Alexander clamoring onto the bib of the car. He had to get down now! Below him he saw the guards waiting, he felt the train shift under his feet with every bend in the track - still, he'd have to chance it. He leapt onto the next car. Instantly the motion of the car knocked him onto his hands and knees; the wind rushing across the top of the train as it picked up speed threatened to dislodge him from the roof entirely but he was able to find his balance enough to stay on. He managed to stagger to his knees, a look behind him revealed Alexander gaining ground. The man knelt down and aimed a knife but a sudden jolt from the train jostled him, causing him to have to catch himself with his throwing arm. Roger wasted no time, gaining another car. Below the guards were just behind him. But this detente could not continue indefinitely, he was fast running out of cars.

Below him, almost covered up by the sound of the wind rushing past his ears, he heard a baby squalling. If he could hear a baby... he peered over the side of the car: there, just below him, was an open window. He could not just lower himself backward, without even testing it he knew his right arm would abandon him if he put any serious weight on it and there was no way for him to preform such a maneuver with only his left. He only had one choice. Attempting to steady his breathing he crouched down beside the ledge. He crossed his left arm over his right, digging his fingers into the tiny overhang. He would have to swing over the edge catching himself by the tips of his fingers on his left hand; his right could not hold his weight, chances were the action would tear the stitches out regardless - he did not relish the thought of having to restitch the wound so soon - the cross in his arms would cause him to turn in midair so that he faced the window; from there he could easily could swing inside the train car. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. The chances of successfully swinging in through the window were almost nil, more likely he would miss his mark or lose his grip and swing right off the train. He smirked - well, in that case, at least he would not have to concern himself with the knife throwing footman at his back. In truth, he might never need to concern himself with anything ever again. But what choice did he have? If he made for the tinder he might reach it but the conductor would then become aware of the ruckus and stop the train and if that were to occur... well, nothing good could come of such a thing. Steeling himself, he took a deep breath and went over the edge.

For a moment he was falling through the air. Then he felt his fingers shift from the bottom of the ledge to the top as his right hand released the ledge leaving only his left to hold the burden of his weight, his fingertips gripped the ledge. He swung, turning in midair he could see his target. He thrust his hips, propelling himself forward through the portal. His fingers lost their grip on the ledge and he flew, landing in a crouch on the floor of the compartment where a stunned old nurse stared up from diapering the still screaming infant at this handsome intruder.

"Pardon me, madam." Roger stood and giving the woman a low bow, he let himself out into the narrow hallway where the guards stood, rather unfortunately with their backs to the spy. The first two were working their way through the door while the third waited his turn patiently. Three shots would easily take care of the business but the panic the sound would incite would cause his escape to be entirely ruined. Roger easily dispatched the waiting guard with a sharp blow to the back of his head with the butt of his gun. The other two men remained oblivious to their comrade's plight, standing in front of the open portal with no thought that the man they sought might be right behind. Roger wasted no time: he jumped up, catching the doorframe in his fingers he swung into the guards feet first, kicking them both down. The men foundered, the man on the right slid down the stair, in his terror he grabbed for whatever might be reached to stabilize himself but in a rather unlucky turn of events his grasping hand closed upon the other guard causing them both to go tumbling from the car. Roger grabbed the unconscious guard from the hall and drug him out the door. He only had a few seconds, a minute at most before Alexander caught up to him.

"Well I never!" the old woman from the middle cabin cried, alerting Roger that his time was up. Alexander eyed the empty hall suspiciously, before he began his slow, cautious walk to the door. Opening the door, he found the prone body of one of his guards lying on the cold metal floor. He looked around the small platform but Bond could not be seen, nor was he hanging onto either side of the car. Likely he had moved on to the next car the footman surmised. Alexander started for the car when, his elbow wrapped around the pole which supported the bib, Roger swung down from the roof, spinning around the metal bar so that his boots made sharp contact with the other man's face causing Alexander to fly against the rail. Roger hit the floor standing. He straightened his cufflinks and winced as he felt the growing wetness upon his shoulder. Alexander spun around sending out a spray of three knives. Roger hit the ground just in time to feel the wind from the knives whistle over him. He sprang to his feet, only to have to bend backward to avoid a slash from Alexander's knife. The footman slashed at Roger who instinctively dodged a succession of quick thrusts, ducking and weaving right and left until he saw his opening. He dodged a cut to his right and, leaning to his left, connected a hard right hook to Alexander's gut. Alexander exhaled sharply, he staggered slightly grasping the rail which, in a flash, he pushed off of, giving his spin greater speed and force, his knife glinting in the sun and his glare murderous. Roger hit his knee to the ground hard as he only just ducked under the deadly attack. Using the propulsion from his bent leg he forced he whole weight into a series of punches to Alexander's middle and finishing with a blow to the head, causing the young man to spin in near a full circle. Alexander staggered unsteadily, almost unable to step forward. He lunged at Roger once more. His attack was slow, the spy easily dodged it. Unable to control his momentum any longer Alexander stumbled onto the rail; seeing his imbalance, Roger helped him over the rail. Alexander landed before the train had made a score of feet, his limp form rolled down the slight embankment. For a moment Roger feared the young man might be dead - a strange sensation to say the least - perhaps it was out of respect for a worthy opponent; or more likely, a twinge of regret brought on by his own love of romance that the pair of star-crossed lovers might now be separated by that most cruel of barriers. Then the body moved, raising itself on an arm by its own power. Despite the ever growing distance Roger could plainly see the look of pure hatred and bitter disgust Alexander wore. Roger smirked at the sight and pulled the unconscious guard back into the car.


	7. Chapter 7

Roger sat with his back pressed against the mast of the old steamer ship. A salty breeze tousled his black hair and caused the pages of his book to turn. Flipping them back he stretched, flexing his right shoulder. It was still somewhat stiff but the wound had closed well with no trace of infection though he doubted the scar would look any better than the one that adorned the back of his hand - though at least his bad stitching might be excused for its having been preformed almost blindly and single handed, he smirked. He looked up at the sky - a few dark clouds had gathered on the horizon promising rain that evening, but that was still quite a ways off. If the winds held favorable they might even make Port within the hour. He smiled as he wondered if they had yet found the final guard, bound and gagged in the auxiliary sandbox. Mostly likely. It had been a fortnight since they had shipped out of Calcutta - hopefully the drought had not made the train crews lax in their duties, he chuckled. Beneath him the dull droning of the compound engine pounded away with such constant rhythm as a lullaby.

Reading another sentence he turned the page. For all their flaws these American novels were quite a good deal more exciting than their English counterparts: duels and deceit and disaster and blasphemous rakes and unbelievable coincidence bringing together impossible connections - though what would possess anyone to name their son St. Elmo was beyond him. At least St. John was traditional, but St. Elmo was just unnecessarily cruel - it was no small wonder he grew into such a troublesome man. For all his wild ways Mr. Rochester would never have engaged in such a thing as dueling and murder. It was the only thing that made his time among the Americans bearable. Such an uncivilized lot - how they had managed to spring from Britannia in such rude form was nothing short of remarkable. England could send off its criminals and a civilized land would spontaneously create itself with proper respect for Parliament and the Crown, even the northern portion of the colony had managed despite the taint of their southern half, and yet somehow this lot seemed unable to understand such a basic concept as tea. Everything was bitter coffee. A sailor fixed Roger with an unpleasant glare as he tightened the halyard; Roger pretended not to notice. He had every intention of returning the book when he was finished, until then he had little to worry about insofar as its owner demanding its return - on such a ship no man would dare admit to having his dear little romance novel pilfered and thus impotent scowls served as the sailor's only weapon. Roger hummed a few merry notes as he turned the page.

"Land ho!" came the cry from above. Roger's eyes shot to the horizon. He squinted. Sure enough the line where the sky met the sea had thickened. Damnation! His eyes ran over the pages at three times the speed.

Forty minutes later Roger strode over to the gangplank, "Oh! I almost forgot." he said and he turned and deposited the book into the unfortunate sailor's hand. The sailor's face reddened at the sudden attention the gift bestowed upon him garnered from his fellow crew members. Roger could scarcely keep a straight face as he heard the derisive mocking of the crew behind. Served the man right, he should take more pride in his preferences. At the bottom of the plank a lovely young Han woman stood, her jet black hair tied by a white ribbon. "Ji-Yun, it is lovely to see you again though I wish the circumstances were better." he said giving Mrs. Pyong a peck on the cheek. He handed her a small white envelope, "I am sorry for you loss."

"Gomawo. I am only glad he did not die alone."

"Did they ever discover why he and Kim were on the ship or what caused the explosion?"

"No." the young woman lowered her eyes. "They tell me the ship had a barrel of gunpowder which had accidentally been ignited."

"But you don't believe them?" Roger probed. Mrs. Pyong shook her head ever so slightly.

"I have a telegram for you from Councilman Collingsby," she said, handing Roger a yellow envelope.

"Councilman, eh? He wasted no time at that, did he?" Roger mumbled as he slid a thin blade up through the top of the envelope and took out the letter and read:

 _Mr. Bond stop_

 _You will be pleased to hear Mr. Stanton has been arrested and will spend the foreseeable future in prison stop_

 _I have been appointed temporarily to the council in his place which I expect will become permanant stop_

 _When you have finished the case please report to Vienna for your new assignment stop_

 _If you require further assistance do not hesitate to ask stop_

 _Bombay thanks you for your service stop_

 _Dr. Collingsby_

 _PS: Imelda Stanton eloped with Alexander the week after you left stop_

Roger smiled as he stuffed the document back into its protective covering and slid it into his waistcoat pocket; it seemed the good doctor had a rather keen understanding of his nature. Perhaps he might send the happy couple a gift once he arrived in Vienna.

"We would be honored if you would stay at our house tonight, James." Mrs. Pyong bowed.

"Thank you, I would be glad to. If you please." He gestured that they might go.

* * *

Roger knelt at the table. Beside him a small child black haired child, the very image of his father but for his mother's chin, no older than a year and a half, poked and prodded at his Western clothes. "Jae-sang, do not be rude to our guest." Ji-yun scolded.

"It's alright, I don't mind it. He's just being curious - aren't you?" He said, picking up the child and holding him almost nose to nose with himself. The child shrieked with laughter as the Englishman bounced him up and down.

"You'll spoil him, James." Ji-yun smiled softly accentuating the graceful liniments of her face. For an instant the sorrow that had lined her mouth and eyes disappeared from her visage. She was so lovely. Roger set the child down before him and placed a finger on the tip of the child's nose.

"That is precisely what I intend to do." he said with a smile as the chubby arms reached up to him demanding to once more be picked up.

"Come Jae-sang, it is time for bed." an elderly woman clucked, gathering up the child in her arms.

"Thank you, Grandmother." Ji-yun said clearing the table.

Roger watched the infant wistfully as his grandmother took him from the room. "Have you considered how you plan to pay for his education?" he mused.

"No." the young woman acknowledge sadly.

"Then, if it is not too much to ask, I would like to take on the role of benefactor for him."

"Oh Roger, I could not accept such a thing!" she cried. The use of his proper name struck Roger - of all the men and women of the world he had met during his mission it was only Gun and Ji-yun who knew his true identity... and now that number was one less and his soul felt a certain hollowness for that fact. "We have some savings. And I am still a young woman."

"Nonsense. You should not be forced to remarry to provide your son with the fullest education he might attain. It is not uncommon for a wealthy English Gentleman to become the patron of a likely looking young man - particularly one who has no children of his own." Roger remarked; Ji-yun still appeared troubled by the proposal. "Besides, I owe it to Gun. He saved my life, it is a debt I never repaid. Please allow me the honor of providing for my namesake." Roger argued - he was not a man for tears but at the moment one threatened to reveal itself - a flash of emotion not lost on his companion. After a few moments consideration, Ji-yun finally relented with a nod. "Now that that is settled and we are alone, do tell me why you do not believe the explosion was an accident?"

Ji-yun nodded, glancing about she beckoned him, "Come, let us visit my husband. I am certain he will be glad to see you." Roger followed the woman into a small room where the photograph of a handsome, young Korean man sat overlooking a small shrine. Roger knelt on the floor before the image, lit a stick of incense, and placed it in the ornamental holder beside the portrait. Ji-yun brought a basket filled with clothing over from the corner. "The police were able to salvage some of his clothing," she explained as she lifted the top rim of basket out, revealing that the basket holding the clothing was actually a similar basket fitted inside the first. Within the bottom of the second basket sat the tattered remains of a black topcoat. "One day I will show Jae-sang, but not now. He is too young for such things."

Roger hesitantly reached into the basket and ran a piece of the charred black fabric between his fingers - instantly the image of he and his friend, both garbed in Western clothing as they walked through the alleys of Hong Kong's seedy red-light district from the noodle stand they frequented sprung to his mind. They were laughing over some nonsense, some joke of no consequence Gun had told - for the life of him he could not recall what it was that had been so funny, he dearly wished he could. Gun's top coat, the one he had joked made him look like a real Westerner but was glad of during the dark rainy nights waiting on the docks for those deals that are never done in the warm sun of day when an umbrella would have been far too noticeable. A dull ache settled in his heart as he rubbed the dark wool between his fingers. It felt strangely greasy. He sniffed it. Faint undertones of wood pulp and cotton wafted from the thick woolen fabric. "Gelignite." he said.

"Gelignite?" the young woman repeated, confused.

Roger rocked back on his heels and stood, still holding the fabric, "You were right, Ji-yun, the explosion was no accident. Gelignite cannot explode without a detonator. I suspect Gun and Agent Kim were lured onto that ship." Ji-yun gasped. "What was it that made you suspect foul play?"

"It was this." The young woman dug into the bottom of the basket, "I hid it so no one would find it." She produced a small white piece of silk, "It's Gun's handkerchief - silk so it was not completely burned in the fire - and look!" she cried pushing the silken corner toward Roger.

He grabbed it from her, examining the thing closely. There, stained into the silk in black ink was a picture. It was only a fragment of the complete image: there was an arc, probably part of a circle or an arch, a horizontal line went through the bottom of the image describing what would have been the diameter but that it extended beyond the edge of the arc, a diagonal line bisected the line with the obtuse angle facing the arc and the acute angle on the side on which was drawn a partial face that appeared animal in feature though it was so poorly portrayed Roger could not even begin to guess what species of creature it was supposed to be. In the center of the arc side of the line a diminuative letter "k" was written.

"Do you know it?" Ji-yun demanded eagerly, leaning over the scrap to look though she was wholly familiar with every stroke by this time.

"No." Roger shook his head. His dear friend's face fell, she rolled backward from kneeling to sitting, defeated, as though her last shed of hope of finding out what had happened to her husband had vanished in that single syllable. "I have never seen anything like this symbol before. Tell me, did Gun say anything about what he was working on before he left? Even the smallest detail could be important."

"He had been assigned to something involving the French, something to do with a treaty they were working on. I recall he was telling me that French was a very difficult language to learn because many of the letters in a word did not make any sounds and he was very frustrated."

"The day he died, do you recall what he did or said before he left? Was he acting strangely? Did he seem at all preoccupied?"

"No!" Ji-yun shook her head furiously. "No, there was nothing at all! We ate breakfast and then Gun said he had to go and kissed Jae-sang and I and left. He seemed happy."

"Did he take anything with him?"

"Just an... he called it an at-tah-shay case?" she attempted.

"An Attache case?"

"Yes!"

"Interesting..." So Gun had been working for the French attache on the treaty.

"Do you know if he was working with Agent Kim?"

She shut her eyes so tightly it almost appeared she was in pain, putting her forefingers to her temples as if trying to stimulate the memory. "No," she said, "he was not. But he did mention something last week during a game of yut that Gun thought was unusual - a number of Russians who were associating with some Englishmen from one of the ships but, he said, neither ship bought or sold anything through the import shop but for some porcelain and a few reams of silk."

"They simply traveled all that way to, in essence, sit in the harbor?"

"That is what Ji-hyun said."

"Did he say anything further on the subject?"

"That it was not the first time he had noticed similar behavior between the Russians and English. Is this why my husband was killed?"

"I don't believe so. Did Kim say anything regarding the Dutch ship?"

"No, nothing!"

"That is... troublesome. Very troublesome indeed." Roger pondered for a moment. "Do you know where Agent Kim lived?"

Ji-yun nodded.

* * *

Agent Ji-hyun Kim's house was a small affair, a straight hanok, abandoned now that its owner had passed. Obscured by the dark shadows of late evening that covered the long porch, Roger slid in through the back window that no one had seen fit to be bothered to close. The house was in a sorry state, two weeks of neglect left the floor littered with leaves. A rat, disturbed by the entrance of the large stranger, scurried from the kitchen into a hole in the wall. He knew little of the man beyond that he had come to the island from some village in the mountains last year following the incident with the Russians. From Ji-yun's testimony he could guess he had been placed in the Import shop - a fairly common placement allowing for oversight of the harbor without being particularly conspicuous, particularly if the agent was a native. And given this particular harbor's troubled history it was all the more prudent to be watchful; especially with the French Attache's visit. The information about the empty English ships and their crew's association with the Russians (whose ships possessed equally empty holds) nagged at his mind. He had a hunch - if it bore out. He strolled to the kitchen, eyes searching for something, he did not know what specifically, something that did not quite belong - a thin empty space, a long crack where none should be, an unusually short floorboard. He peered into the shelves, heavy metal plates and bowls - all of the weighted variety common to ships... A thought occurred to him, he had heard tales of secret messages being hidden in the bottoms of weighted shipware: he took one of the bowls and weighed it in his hand; he took another and tested it against the first - it was lighter, as though hollow! He turned the bowl over and unscrewed the bottom. Wedged within the hollow interior sides were a number of folded pieces of paper. He opened a few until he found the one he was hoping for and read:

 _May 14, 1886: The Captain of the Clarabell met with the Captain of the Minsk after pulling into port. The Clarabell has a crew of twenty but only six crates of cotton, most of poor quality such that the Import shop refused to purchase it. The Captain of the Minsk made an offer for it. Suspecting smuggling I searched the ship but found nothing to indicate contraband. Most of the sailors were asleep in the hold despite it being midday. After two days The Clarabell left with a small cargo of silks and a few tea sets. Inspected the Minsk before it left port. They had, apparently, taken on ten crew members as well as three crates of the cotton from the Clarabell and one hundred seal skins. During the inspection I noted most of their crew was asleep in the hold._

Roger folded the note and returned it to its place in the bowl more out of habit than necessity - no one was coming who would notice whether it had been tampered with. So it had been the Clarabell. Now he knew how the kidnapped men had been transported, they had been drugged and made to appear as though they were merely sleeping crew members. So, the sailors were being sold to the Russians... given the antagonistic relationship between England and Russia this boded poorly for the missing men. Two possibilities sprang to mind: the Government could be intending to use them as hostages that might be traded for their own people (of which a number were being held in secret - Roger could think of two spies he had helped capture who were being held somewhere in the vicinity of Manchester); but just as likely they might be being used as slave labor in areas where the profit only outweighed the danger when it was not your own countrymen being employed. He would have to find where the Minsk had been destined. He read through the rest of the notes before screwing the bottom back onto the bowl. There was nothing on the Dutch ship! What had enticed he and Gun to board the ship that day? Was it something he had discovered or had Gun been the one to approach Kim? Were it Gun who had come to Kim then was their murder in any way tied to the French Attache? Certainly there were plenty who would prefer the treaty not go through, but what had the Dutch to do with it? Or was the Dutch ship merely a casualty in a plot that was unrelated to it? Irritation gnawed at the back of his mind so ferociously it caused him to shudder. A Dutch ship, a gelignite detonation, two murdered agents, the French Attache, and a piece of a strange symbol. His fist hit the counter with startling force, causing the dishes to rattle. Where could he even begin? Oh he certainly knew where but were he to question the French delegation about possible strange doings he could be certain the fact they were being questioned by a heretofore unknown Englishman would be the most noteworthy item; and he could be assured he would fare no better at the Import shop. And all the while he was chasing ghosts in Korea all evidence of Hoople and the other kidnapped men would vanish into the Russian wilderness. He let out a cry of frustration as he punched a wooden column. How could he let his friend's murder go unsolved! A bird, her nest in the rafters having been disturbed, flew across the ceiling, scolding the violent intruder.

He looked once more at the plain room, almost empty but for a few personal effects that no one would ever come for. A pang pierced his heart - would this one day be his room that another Agent searched, a room devoid of life but for a few small items to say he had once lived. He was not so young as he once was - it had only been by sheer luck Alexander's blade had missed its mark - how long did he have before it was he buried in a foreign grave no family nor friend's shadow would ever darken with soil unmoistened by tears? He had resigned himself to this lonesome existence, told himself it was wrong to bring a wife or children into it, but now, thinking of Ji-yun playing with Jae-Sang in the warm light of their hanok for the first time he felt a yearning in his heart. He shook off the thought returning once more to the cold, darkened room - no, it was better this way. Had not Chapman threatened his sister? His niece? How could he live without the ever pervasive fear that one day one of his enemies might find the woman he loved and do her harm? Might slaughter his children? Had that not happened to Conway? Infiltrated a gang, when he was discovered they slit the throats of his children with razor blades and did things far worse than death to his wife. He came home to the scene, his children lying in crimson puddles on the floor, his wife, warm gun still in her cold hand. Agent Conway had never been quite right after that, lost his fear of death, sought out the most dangerous assignments and preformed them with ruthless efficiency. In the end he was no better than an assassin and worthless as a spy. On the anniversary of his wife's death he launched a one man war on the gang that had killed his wife - apparently he had spent every moment of his spare time obsessively plotting his endgame - killed thirty men and one woman, the wife of the gang leader, before the police were able to stop him. He surrendered without a fight. Roger could still remember Conway's cold, determined eyes as they led him to the gallows. He had smiled just before they had put the bag over his head. That icy smile Roger would never forget. He shuddered.

Roger pretended he was indifferent, but every letter that came from Quentin was greeted with a tightness in his chest, a fear he never could admit he felt that perhaps this time... He shook his head again. He should have never brought her into this life, he should have never recommended her to the Code Breaking department. He should have denied his identity, lied about the scar - she would have married Quentin eventually anyway; it was not as though her fate would have been inexorably altered. But the way her eyes had shone with admiration... the way they still shone with something that was only his - it had been selfish of him to want to keep her in his world. Selfish of him to recommend taking her on, selfish to recommend her promotion deeper into his world. She had had dozens of missions now, she had proved her worth a hundred times over. Who would have thought a woman-! And with the addition of that maid, Moneypenny, taken into the confidence of the agency last year as her assistant (at Mina's request), they had become the most formidable weapon in intelligence gathering the agency had ever known. Only three members of the agency knew her true identity, four if you counted Russell Shaw in the Code Breaking department - a revelation he had taken rather well after he had recovered from the initial shock. The remainder knew her only as Agent M - a name she was quite pleased with - and simply presumed she was a man, taking little notice of the young woman who occasionally visited headquarters (rumor had it she was the Goddaughter of the agency head). It had been remarkable the information that the women of society let slip to their kind, or that servants readily shared with those of their class - not to mention the men who noticed the intrusion of neither women nor servants on their conversations and thought nothing of them roaming the corridors. Still, the thought of what might happen if she were discovered... He often had visions of the Duke, having discovered her without her knowledge, inviting the family to supper (as the Moore and Wyndham families frequently dined together) and using a ploy to get her alone where he would unsheathe that wicked sword from its home in his cane- He needed to stop such thinking! Tomorrow he would see the Port master. He had best be returning to Ji-yun's house before night fell.

He crawled onto a mat of the floor not too far from Ji-yun and the softly snoring Jae-sang. She looked to him as he lay down. He shook his head. Sadly she lowered her eyes and kissed her child on his forehead. He took her hand in his. "I will find the man who murdered Gun," he swore in whispered tones.

"I know you will." she sighed, grasping the proffered hand.


	8. Chapter 8

He awoke the following morning to find his fingers still intertwined with Ji-yun's. He careful disentangled them so as not to wake the sleeping woman and quietly gathered his belongings. Jae-sang stirred, lifting his head he stared at the man with bright eyes. Roger held a finger to lips. The child seemed to sense the meaning and lay back down, snuggling up to his mother as Roger slipped out the door into the sunny hallway. As he was leaving he noticed a small bundle hung from the door handle with a note printed in neat characters:

 _Please take care, Mr. Bond._

Inside the package was a box containing rice and some fish from the night before. He smiled appreciatively in the direction of the sleeping woman down the hall; she knew him far too well. Opening the door he stepped out into the early morning sun.

It was a short walk from the house to the port. He strode into the office of the port master as one who is on a mission of great importance. He stopped at the large wooden counter which served to separate the building into two parts where an elderly Englishman wearing a dark green eyeshade above a pair of round wire spectacles. The man peered down his long nose at Roger, "May I help you, sir?"

"Yes, my name is James Bond, esq. a Soliciter lately of Bombay. I need to speak with the Port Master immediately. It seems there has been a theft of my employer's property and we have reason to believe it came through this port."

"I am he. Might I ask what was stolen?"

"A number of works of art. My employer, the Councilman Dr. Emmett Collingsby, is a collector of the paintings of Raja Ravi Varma. A month ago three paintings were stolen from his collection. We arrested the Captain of the Clarabell on suspicion of smuggling and he confessed that he had been contracted to smuggle the works in three crates of cotton of such low quality it would only catch the eye of those who had bid to purchase them - some Russians, apparently." Roger spun his tale to the old man.

The Port Master's eyes glistened with excitement, "I knew there was something unusual about those crates!"

"Then they have been through here?"

"Yes!" the old man began flipping through a pile of manifests, pulling two from the stack, "Here! The Clarabell arrived on the 14th of May carrying a cargo of six crates of cotton of such poor quality the Import shop refused to purchase it. But three crates were purchased by a Russian ship, the Minsk."

"Those must have contained the paintings!" Roger declared. "The other three were decoys. they knew even if they were searched it would be unlikely anyone would search through six crates of cotton when the first three were empty! Do we know where the Minsk was bound?"

"Yes..." the Port Master said scanning the manifest. "It says they were headed for Vladivostok. I can telegraph the port to see if they arrived."

"If you would I'd appreciate that greatly."

"Excuse me a moment," the man said, recusing himself to a back room. Roger waited patiently, mentally stringing together the series of beeps into words. Before the port master returned he already knew the answer to his query. The old man returned to the desk, telegraph tape in hand. "My counterpart in Vladivostok reports that the Minsk docked some two weeks ago, on the 18th. He said the manifest showed they had with them the three crates of cotton and five-score seal skins. They dropped off the crates there but continued on with the skins."

"Did he say where they were going with the crates?"

"No. However he did mention a group of men with carts met them at the port to take on the crates, which struck him as unusual for the ship was also letting off more than half its crew to accompany the crates. He said they purchased quite a good deal of food for the journey - enough for two month's journey at least... and a number of pickaxes."

"Well, that is a start. Thank you for your assistance." Roger said with a bow.

"You're welcome, Mr. Bond. I'm only sorry I could not do more."

"Oh no, you have been more than helpful. If you'll pardon me." He excused himself.

* * *

It was no small matter to find a ship willing to take him to his destination, but by the end of the morning he had found a Japanese fishing vessel willing to travel to Vladivostok for the price of, what Roger calculated to be, a new fishing boat - with the understanding that they would return in nine weeks time to retrieve the errant Englishman and wait two weeks at port, if necessary, until he arrived. While small, the ship would be able to uncomfortably accommodate at least thirty men - were there yet more men... that would be a bridge he would cross when he came to it. They made port two days later in the port city of Vladivostok where a series of inquires led Roger to the public house and inn of Yevgeny Vorontsov - a massive bear of a man covered in white, curly hair with a jovial mien that belied some mixture of the native Siberian with the dominant Russian. Despite the lateness of hour (for it was fast approaching midnight), he ushered the Englishman into the shop with a pomp that was somewhere between royalty and a long absent dear friend, pouring Roger a cup of Vodka and inviting him to have a seat at what appeared to be a small bar where he prattled on for the better part of an hour while Roger nursed his drink (well knowing that were it to show even the barest signs of emptying, Mr. Vorontsov would be quick to refill it). Despite his rough manners, Roger decided he quite liked the man - the shopkeeper rather reminded him of some of the old Scots he had met in his travels. After prattling on another half hour, Mr. Vorontsov finally got to the heart of the matter. "So what brings you to these parts, Mr. Bond?" he asked, jovially.

"I've heard good reports on the growth of this town over the past few years and I was considering investing in a few business ventures."

"You're heading to the Lena Valley, eh?" the other man quaffed a mug of vodka.

"What makes you think that?"

Yevgeny shrugged and refilled his glass, "That's where that other Englishman went."

"What other Englishman?"

"Oh just some sod, said he had come all the way from India - don't know why he didn't stay at one of the other hotels, they're a good deal fancier than this one." Of that there could be no doubt! Much of the pub was in disrepair, the surfaces worn from years of use with no attempt to revarnish them; chairs were missing rungs causing them to appear strangely asymmetrical as they sat against the bar waiting for patrons to fill them come the following day; as for the part that was qualified as an inn, it was only four small rooms each containing a bed, an old, threadbare rug, and a small side table upon which sat a tin candlestick. Still the place had a certain comfort to it, not unlike an old Irish hunting lodge. "Still, I suppose he was decent enough. Kept mostly to himself."

"Did he say what he went to the Lena Valley for?"

"Gold, I suspect." Yevgeny shrugged. "That's the only reason anyone goes there."

"Did he say where in the Lena Valley he had gone?"

"West of Neryungri, near Bodaybo. I only know because he asked how long it would take to get there - wanted to make sure he had provisions enough for the trip."

"Is it far?" For all his time in Russia, Roger had to admit he knew precious little of the geography of Siberia.

"A month on a fast horse if all goes well."

Roger winced. The blasted country was too damned big! He decided to change tack, "How is business in town lately?"

"Slow, but then it's always slow here so far as the inn is concerned. Aside from the occasional drunkard who can't find it in him to stagger on home I'm fortunate I get six men a month."

"Every month?" Roger inquired.

"Just about, since January. Different men every month. Not that they say much either. I haven't had a proper conversation with an outsider for ages. They just come to pick up the prisoners from the dock."

"Prisoners?"

"That's what Pieter said they were. Every month The Minsk comes in with a load of prisoners. Take them to go work in the mines I suppose. Serves 'em right. I only saw a cossack once before they started coming."

"They're cossacks?"

"Well, mostly. In the winter they had some Evens with them. I suppose to use their reindeer sledges. They always purchase a mountain of food before they go, so they needed the sledges to get through the snow. It's wagons now that it's summer."

Roger changed the topic of conversation once more to far more trivial matters, conversing another hour before announcing his intent to retire. "Before I turn in, do you know where I might obtain a good horse?"

"Alyosha has few Karabakh horses and a number of Bashkirs that might suit your fancy as well as a pair of Dons he might be convinced to part with for the right sum. Lives just outside of town. If you're going to the gold fields you'll want a Don I'm thinking. It's dangerous for a rider alone, wolves round these parts aren't too keen to go after a man, but just in case you'll want the speed."

"Thank you my good man." Roger said, tipping his hat to the innkeeper before going off to his quarters. "I had best purchase another pistol." he muttered.

* * *

The day following was spent in preparation. As evening waned into night, Roger rubbed his eyes and stretched, cracking his neck to both sides. He peered down at his work that sat on the cluttered table that was to serve as a desk in his room - three smoke bombs and two bombs. They were far from the elegant devices Quentin constructed, and certainly not near so powerful (he doubted the regular bombs could do much more than to create a flash and a loud sound unless their target were in direct contact) but they would likely be sufficient. The largest challenge had been purifying the phosphorus from the match heads to coat the fuse tips with. Each fuse tip was encased in a little glass tube sealed with surgical tape. Once the glass was broken, the exposure to the air would cause the phosphorus to ignite. He carefully packed the bombs into his leather satchel beside a copy of Anna Karenina and placed the bag next to the bed post from which hung his gun belt wherein his revolver slept. On the pillow lay a large, ancient pistol - a convert to percussion and black paint finish - sold to him by the widow of a veteran of a war begun and ended long before Roger's first breath. It had taken an hours of cleaning to strip the rust from it, and even then he trusted it more as a cudgel than a firearm. Mentally he took stock of his preparations and sighed. There were towns along the road, but he hoped to visit as few as possible - his Russian was good, but he had never been able to fully rid himself of his accent; the fewer encounters he made with people the harder it would be to trace where he had come from when the cossacks came calling. It would be slow going with ten people in tow and doubtless they would not be in any condition for a Robert's style march to the sea. Without the utmost caution the cossacks would be upon them in a matter of days - it was his hope to make that number as large as possible to lessen the chance that reinforcements might come. He had little hope he could fully avoid a confrontation with the legendary soldiers but he would give his charges as much of a chance as possible. He returned to the desk, this time taking up a pen. He brushed aside the litter that covered the desk and put down a piece of paper. He attempted to write but the words refused to come in any order. By the fifth false start he gave up and held to letter to the candle, watching it burn with a certain vengeful satisfaction. "I suppose I'll just have to survive," he muttered, "she'll never forgive me if I die without writing first." He stuffed the large pistol into his gun belt and lay down on the bed. Tomorrow he would leave at first light.

The journey to the gold fields of the Lena valley consisted of long, arduous days of riding. Roger found himself quite pleased with the performance of the Don, at least so much that he did not long begrudge the price of the animal that now loped along the road at a steady pace, never seeming to tire or demand special attention from its rider. The third night Roger had heard the howls of wolves but none approached his camp. The weight of the packs had forced him to forfeit large quantities of food in favor of increased distances so by the fifteenth day he found himself needing to hunt. By sheer luck his horse was spooked by a snake which he quickly dispatched. It was not especially good food, but it served its purpose. Another day he came upon a rabbit and a few birds. On the twentieth night he heard the wolves again, much closer this time. Roger brought the Don within the circle of the fire to calm its nerves. The following night Roger knew they were being hunted. From outside the circle of the fire he saw the glow of eyes as they stalked just outside of human vision. Roger fired a shot into the darkness. One of the creatures yelped and the eyes withdrew.

As morning broke Roger was packing up camp when the Don reared letting loose a terrified whinny. Roger pulled down the reins to see the rangy form of a large wolf approaching from the woods. The creature was thin, far thinner than it should be in the summer. In its eyes Roger could see the fever of disease burning. It growled menacingly at the horse and rider. Roger pulled his pistol and trained it on the beast when suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, two more curs appeared from either side, a low growl alerted him to the presence of two more approaching from the rear. He counted seven in all - each with the insanity of disease written upon their faces. The horse reared once more, nearly tearing the reins from Roger's grip. As the terrified Don tensed to bolt, Roger swung himself onto the animal just before the wolves made their charge. He fired in the direction of the first wolf, missing it entirely but stunning it enough that the horse was able to break through the circle. It lunged as they passed, aiming its gaping maw at the horse's throat but Roger caught it with the butt of the old pistol, sending it sprawling to the ground, stunned. One of the creatures leapt at him, nearly catching his ankle. He fired at the animal, it yelped falling back. Roger held tight as the Don, speed fueled by panic, traversed the valley at an incredible rate, yet the wolves only seemed to match the poor steed pace for pace. A stumble from the horse brought the wolves upon them, leaping and tearing at its legs and flank. One caught the flank of the Don, gripping the flesh in its cruel fangs. Roger wasted no time, took aim and pulled the trigger. The animal lay where it fell, motionless. Roger blindly grabbed into his satchel pulling out a bomb he bit into the fuse cover and threw it. The bomb exploded with a great flash of light and blast of sound, stunning the beasts. Roger watched the wolves disappear further behind. Seeing continued pursuit hopeless, he watched as the remaining wolves melted back into the woods from whence it had come. Roger breathed a sigh of relief as the Don raced on through the valley.

On the twenty-seventh day he finally made it into Neryungri where inquiries regarding the strange parade of cossacks and prisoners pointed him west six days by horse. That were if his horse were able to travel, but for the moment the poor, beleaguered Don required a rest. For all his efforts to the contrary, the wolf bite was causing the animal great pain. On the third day an Evenk reindeer herder who was passing through the town offered Roger a trade of his Bashkir for the Don, confident he could save the noble creature. Roger agreed on the terms that rather than take the man's horse he would require the Siberian's assistance in a rather delicate matter. On hearing the Englishman's plan the Evenk readily agreed, eager to assist with anything that might blacken the eye of the Tsar even in the slightest. Roger followed the herder until they had come within a day's walk of his destination, a place the Native was well familiar with from his travels. Following the Evenk's directions, Roger soon came upon the tall chain link fence that marked the outer boundary of the site still a mile from the twin black towers that jutted into the sky. He stood, staring from the safety of the trees at the horrifying vision before him.


	9. Chapter 9

In the field that stretched out beyond the fence a trio of men stood. One leaned on a shovel while the other two occupied themselves with a wagon loaded with objects encased in sheets of cloth. Removing the slat of wood that comprised the back as few of the objects rolled out onto the earth below. They landed softly, dully, with a strange stiffness. "Smotret'!" a heavily bearded man who had nearly been knocked over by the sacks shouted. He and another man grabbed the top sack from the ground and flung in into the large hole that sat nearby. Then a second, then a third.

"This one's split open," the other man warned.

"Be quick then!" admonished the bearded one. They grabbed opposite ends of the sack and lifted. A slit in the side opened into a wide hole. From the hole a snowy white human hand slid, hanging inertly from the cloth sack. The other man noticed and cried out. They quickly flung the sack into the hole with the others before it could spill its grim contents. The fallen bodies now attended to, they turned their attentions to the wagon and continued the gruesome task. It was a mass grave! A chill froze Roger as he counted at least fifteen sacks thrown into the grave with still at least ten more piled in the cart. For a moment he could only look on in revulsion, without thinking he leaned forward. He heard the snapping of a branch. A crow alighted from above him scolding noisily. The men in the field startled, heads snapped to the direction of the screaming bird. Roger froze, daring not even to breath. The bearded man shrugged, "Well come on, before they start to stink." The two men returned to their task while the third, still leaning against his shovel, looked on. He had best make himself scarce, Roger thought, the perverse trance now broken. Careful not to disturb the foliage further he skirted the edge of the forest until he could no longer see the men. The fence departed from the woods at this point and trailed off into the meadow. The grass was of the scraggly, sparse variety, spotted by a few stands of weed and wildflower not even wide enough to conceal a rabbit let alone a man. Were he to come upon a guard there would be nowhere for him to hide. From the distance the two towering chimneys belched out great clouds of black smoke. Were Hoople not among the men in the grave that is where he would be. Roger took a deep breath and darted along the fence line.

It was well into the evening before he arrived at the encampment that sat in the looming shadows of the twin smelting towers and the factory from which they sprung. Both the factory and the camp were surrounded by a second chain link fence, fifteen feet in height - three lines of wire lined the top, sharp barbs glinting their threat in the evening sun. Various detritus littered the fence area. Broken boards leaned against it as if waiting for some patching job they might find new life in serving; a large stack of split logs were piled almost eight feet up, ancient glass bottles and bird bones littered the ground. Within the fence sat three long rotten wooden buildings that appeared to have once been stables but from the black metal pipes that jutted from the structures expelling thin wisps of smoke, it was clear that horses were no longer their chief residents. A guard watched lazily from his seat on a barrel outside one of the buildings as men milled about the yard. Each man was dressed in precisely the same fashion: illfitting rough tan shirts and dark trousers - the uniform of prisoners. The guard seemed largely unconcerned by the movements of the men; he cast a cursory glance at a small knot of men by the fence but made no effort to bother himself with rising from his resting place to break them up. There was no reason to. In the time it took a man to scale the fence the guard could easily stand, ready his rifle, aim, and fell the escapee before he reached the top. Even if a man were to escape the fence he would still have to elude the cossacks, and beyond the cossacks there was still slim chance he would survive the wilds of Siberia with no food and only the clothes on his back, even in the summer. A whistle blew and the prisoners lined up in two rows - Roger estimated there were at least one hundred of them. The guard reluctantly removed himself from his improvised chair and moved to the front of the lines scanning the men as a matter of course, not truly looking at any of them nor bothering to count them. There was no reason to. He shouted a command in Russian and the lines followed him toward the factory. The Night Shift, Roger figured. A few minutes later another guard leading two lines of filthy, sweat and dirt encrusted workers into the yard. Among the workers, Roger thought he saw the flash of a familiar face before the men disappeared into the barracks.

"Dinner's in ten minutes!" the guard called out. A few minutes later the first of the men shuffled out from the barracks in clean clothes, hands and face thoroughly scrubbed. By the time the dinner bell had rung the men were all back in their line. The guard led the men from the barracks back to the factory area. The third man from the rear, Roger was almost certain of it though he was thinner and far more worn - that was Lt. Commander Jeremy Hoople! He had to get a closer look. Making certain the area was abandoned, he quickly scaled the outer fence. It was a short run to the inner fence. He ducked beside the woodpile, wholly concealing himself from view, and waited.

Twilight was nearing its end as the men came trudging back to their hovels. "I'm just going to get some wood for the stove!" a skinny young man with hair the color of freshly minted copper declared in the accented tones that could only belong to a man of Cardiff. As the young man began to load his twiggish arms with logs Roger whispered,

"You, Taffy!" The copper haired man started, dropping the logs with a clatter. His youthful face peered around the logs, at this distance, with his heavily freckled face and bright eyes he looked more a child than a man. He indicated to himself. "Yes, you." Roger answered, black eyes shining in the moonlight.

"Oi, Paul! You OK?" came a Londoner's voice from the dark of the yard.

"Shhh..." Roger put a finger to his lips.

"Just- just a snake." Paul answered.

"Did you get it?" the other man called, "Could use some proper meat round here!"

"No. It got away." the young man called back.

"More's the pity of it," an Irishman sighed. "I'd sooner eat a sick rat than another cup of borscht and moldy bread."

The young man turned once more to Roger and whispered, "You're an Englishman! Have you come to get us out of here?"

"Yes," Roger replied, though he had no idea quite how he would move so many people. "But I need to ask, do you know a Lt. Comm Jeremy Hoople?"

"Jeremy? Yeah I do! He sleeps in the bunk below me. Why?"

"Could you fetch him for me?" Roger asked. The young man nodded and turned. "Don't forget your logs!" the spy hissed.

"Oh! Right!" Paul quickly gathered the fallen logs and hurried off toward the barrack nearest the fence.

Roger waited in the silence of the ever darkening night for a few minutes when suddenly he heard a rough voice call out, "Hey, where are you going?" Roger guessed the voice to belong to the guard.

"I'm going to see if I can find that snake." another man replied from the darkness.

"Well if you do give me some. I haven't had a morsel of decent meat in a month." How bad must the fare be if snake was considered to be a decent bit of meat? Roger wondered with no small amount of pity for the guard.

"Hey! Hey, you still there?" the voice of the other man hissed from the other side of the log pile.

"Hoople? Is that you?" Roger whispered.

"It is." the man answered peering over the side of the pile. The months of hard labor had left its mark upon, yet not entirely vanquished the boyishness from Lt. Commander Hoople's features. "Do you have word of my sweet Melissa and the children?"

"They miss their father, but they are well." Roger fibbed, shifting his position. He hadn't the slightest how they fared though he dearly hoped it to be the truth with his entire being.

"Thank the Lord for small favors. Paul said you were here to get us out."

"I will do everything in my power to. How many of you are there?"

"Only one hundred fifty of us in this camp."

"There are other camps?"

"Only B Camp now, they're Russians though. They work in the factory. They call us Ve Camp, though amongst ourselves we are C Camp - I suppose it is hardly a rebellion worth mentioning but when there's so little you beyond a name have it feels like something. There used to be an A Camp as well but they had an outbreak of plague. Only five cases in three hundred people but late one night they burned the entire camp to ash. You could hear the crack of the rifles as they killed anyone who managed to escape the burning buildings. I can still hear their distant screams fill my ears some nights, and that stench from the greasy smoke that settled over the factory! Old Sean Guire developed it as well - he slept in the Barracks next to mine - I saw the bubous for myself, great greyish-black lumps near the groin. He threw himself down the mine shaft rather than risk the same thing happening to us. He was a good man Old Sean, he'd been here longest of any of us - don't know how he made it through the winter. They didn't even notice he was gone." Hoople shook his head in disgust. "There's always new ones to take their place anyhow."

"There won't be any shipments any longer. The man responsible has been jailed."

Hoople snorted disdainfully, "Jailed? For what he's done he should have been hung. Who was it?"

"A Councilman, Stanton was his name."

"An Englishman! I had hoped it had at least been an Indian - that I might understand, but to be betrayed by one of my own countrymen! And for how much might I ask?"

"Two Hundred pounds for each white man."

"Two hundred pounds." Hoople's eyes narrowed. "I pull at least twice that from the ground in an hour. So Mother England has finally arranged for our rescue?"

"They requested I bring you back if I could."

"And what of the others?"

"I will do everything in my power to get you all home. But understand: if I cannot, it is you I have been assigned to bring home."

"I won't go without the others." Hoople swore, resolution gleaming in his blue eyes only moments ago dull.

"I admire the sentiment but you may have to. If it comes down to it-"

"If it comes down to it," the young Lieutenant Commander interrupted, "you will tell them you never found me. That I had already died. I will not sit on comfortable pillows and eat fine foods enjoying the embraces of my children and the caresses of my wife knowing these men are wasting and dying half a world away."

Roger sighed heavily, calculating equations in his mind. Heroics were terrifically inconvenient at times such as these, though he had to admire the small man - it was no small wonder he had risen through the ranks so quickly, he inspired a loyalty by his dedication to his charges that would make any man blindly follow him into any tempest. If he went for aid these men would almost certainly be dead before he returned. One hundred fifty men! The number was staggering. "How many guards are here?"

"Two hundred if you include the cossacks."

"Without the cossacks?"

"Maybe one hundred fifty."

"Quite a lot of guards for so few people."

"Camp A had over four hundred before they burned it. Camp B has two hundred. I suppose they assume they shall soon rebuild the previous numbers."

"Might Camp B help us?"

"No. They are treated a fair deal better than us and many fear they might be forced to work in the mines if we were to rebel. Not to mention what might happen to their families. Apparently Sean Guire was part of such an attempt last March, they gave him twenty lashes for his trouble - he showed us the scars. Said Camp B fought alongside the soldiers and put down the uprising almost as soon as it had started. Each prisoner who joined with the guards was given ten rubles as a reward. The only assistance we can count on from them is to the stygian ferryman's boat."

So there was no hope of simply taking the facility by force and simply leaving at their leisure. Certainly there was no way to travel with so many - he might as well attempt to conceal an army. At least the trouble of being tracked by the cossacks would quickly resolve itself. Still, something did not wholly add up in his mind. Camp A had held four hundred, Camp C one hundred fifty - even without accounting for deaths (and certainly there were a great deal of those, as he had witnessed himself) that number was well above what Stanton alone could have provided in the five months since January. He had only sent between ten and forty a month; perhaps a hundred in total. Which left most of these men unaccounted for.

"Hoople, did all of these men come through Bombay?"

"No. We have a number of Afghanis, some Finns, a couple Germans and Pollocks, a lot of Slavs, we even have a pair of Greeks. There's even some from God only knows. Only sixty of us in this camp are from the Royal Navy..." he continued but Roger was no longer listening, something in his mind clicked at the mention of the Greeks - an idea: a wild, singular idea began to take form.

"You found that snake yet?" the voice of the guard called from the darkness.

"Not yet!" Hoople answered. He turned to Roger and whispered, "I have to go."

"Can you meet me here tomorrow morning?"

"Breakfast starts two hours before sunrise and then we go straight to the mines, but I think I can get away before that."

"Do you think you could get me a worker's uniform?"

"How tall are you?" Hoople hissed.

"6 ft 2 in."

Hoople grimaced, "I'll see what I can scrounge up. Mueller might be about that tall."

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." Hoople echoed.


	10. Chapter 10

As the first pale light of dawn began to pierce the horizon Roger heard a faint shuffling from the other side of the woodpile. "You there?" the voice of Jeremy Hoople hissed.

"Yes." Roger whispered in return.

"I've got the clothes."

"Hand them under the fence, I made a hole just behind the pile." A moment later Hoople slid the clothes, neatly folded, underneath the fence. Roger snatched them and quickly stripped off his own outfit and replaced it with the rough uniform of a prisoner.

"I didn't catch your name yesterday." Hoople mused from the other side of the woodpile.

"Bond," Roger answered, pulling on the pale dun colored shirt, "James Bond."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr. Bond, James Bond." The tired voice attempted some half-hearted levity. Roger allowed a smile.

"What about boots?"

"I'm sorry, you'll have to wear your own."

"Won't the guards notice?"

"I can't remember the last time one of them looked at us to notice. So long as they don't shine"

After a month of riding and walking, Roger could assure they did nothing of the sort. "Is the coast clear?"

"Yes."

"I'm coming over then." Roger easily scaled the tall fence. As he came to the three rows of barbed wire a sense of anxiety gripped his heart. They were not nearly so closely hung as they had appeared from the ground, instead covering a vertical span of almost two feet with sharp barbs threatening anyone with the temerity to attempt the crossing. He pulled one of the wires to test it – it was too loose to support weight reliably, but too tight to simply be pressed down. He would have to step over it and pray he did not lose his balance for a twenty foot drop would be his reward. Looking down the line he saw a post holding the lines tight. He shuffled over to the post, climbing up using it as a grip for his hands. He stood, his left foot dug deeply into the final chain link. He swung his right leg over the wires, hooking it safely into a link on the other side. Secure in his position, he swung the other leg over. Suddenly he felt a tug at his trouser leg. He pulled gently at it but it was of no use, he was snagged on one of the barbs. He took one of his hands from the post and attempted to shake the trousers loose to no avail. The position was difficult to hold, his leg naturally drifted down, only to spring up once more at the sharp stab of the metal barb that had pierced his trouser leg. He'd have to tear it, but the force of such an action risked causing him to lose his balance – he could already feel the slickness of the morning dew. He took a deep breath when suddenly he felt a hard tugging at his leg.

"Looks like you got yourself snagged good," Roger turned to find Hoople, perched precipitously on the slick chain links beside him as sure as if he had been standing on solid ground, both hands working the cloth. "There you are," He said, easily disentangling Roger's trouser leg from the barb.

Roger allowed a brief chuckle. "Hmph, sure-footed as a sailor at sea." He said, securing his foot in the chain links. "Woah!" he cried as his foot slid from its place. He grabbed for the wires, pulling them backward he managed to shove his foot into a lower link. "The sooner we're off this fence the better."

"It'll be easier tonight when it's not so wet." Hoople spoke through a weary smile as they descended the fence.

"All the same I'd rather have you with me next time." Roger said as they reached the ground, he fell to a sitting position.

Hoople followed suit. "Only so far as the wires, then you are on your own. If I cross over I'm not sure I could force myself to return."

"Then my best chance would be to knock you unconscious and drag you over."

The sailor laughed at this and gave Roger a light shove to his shoulder, "You cannot even get yourself over. They find us both dead on the ground come morning." Roger shot him a look which only caused Hoople to laugh more. He decided that for all the man's infuriating nobility, he liked this Lt. Commander Hoople. They both stared off to the horizon where the thin blue line was growing ever thicker. "So, you said you have a plan to get us all out of here?"

"I do. But it's completely mad."

"You don't think it'll work?"

"It's possible. And possible is all I can offer you at this time. I'd be two months at the very least before I could get help from our allies."

"We'll all be long dead by then anyway, better to die free in the fields attempting escape than choking on the bad air of the mines or wasted in the bunks." Hoople stared off wistfully.

"Are you all able to climb the fences so easily?"

"Most of us can. Many of us were sailors before we were brought here."

"Then why haven't more of you escaped?"

"One of the Greeks tried. Went over the fence one moonless night. You'll see him when we get to the mine. Meant to serve as a warning to anyone else who tries. Sometimes I think to try anyway. I plan how I'd hide in the trees during the day, travel by night – and then one bright morning I'll make it back to the port and somehow I'll get passage home and Melissa and the girls will meet me at port. Or perhaps I'll surprise them. I'll dress as a stranger and knock and Clara will answer – she's my eldest – she always wants to be the first one to the door. Or at least she used to. It's been so long since I last saw her! Louisa must be talking by now. I wonder if she looks more like her mother or I – she was so little when I left. Melissa said she had my nose, but I think she is all her mother. Clara's all mine though but for her hair – orange as a carrot! I haven't thought about them like this for so long. I guess, in my own way, I gave up hope of ever seeing them again. If it all goes wrong. If I don't-"

"You can't think like that."

"I know, but still, if I don't make it back please find them; tell them what became of me. I don't want them to spend the rest of their lives wondering."

"I will."

Hoople grabbed Roger's hand and stared into the spy's eyes with such intensity Roger dearly wanted to turn away, "Promise me. Give me your word!"

"I promise, you have my word if something happens I will seek them out and tell them." Roger swore, meeting Hoople's intense gaze with his own. Then he relaxed, "But seeing as I have no intention of going out of my way on such frivolous errands, I suppose you'll just have to continue to live and spare me the inconvenience."

Hoople leaned back against the fence with a slight, almost mirthless laugh, "I suppose so."

"So what is the first order of business?"

"Breakfast. It's dreadful though."

"I'll consider myself warned."

"Oh, I could not warn you enough if I tried for twenty years. Anyhow, come and meet the rest of the men. Paul hasn't stopped talking about you since yesterday, kept us up half the night with his jawing on about home." Hoople allowed a half smile, "I suppose I'm no better."

Hoople led Roger to the back entrance of the large stable barrack. The door hung slightly askance from its hinges, decaying wooden slats showing the darkness within, "We're lucky to have a door. The neighboring barrack only has cheap cloth – I swear it couldn't stop a sigh." Hoople opened the door allowing the grey light of the coming dawn in.

"Is he here? Did you bring him?" Paul's eager voice demanded.

"Yes, he's here. Come in, James." Roger stepped into the room. It was far worse than he had imagined. The stalls had been turned into bunks stacked three high, each with at least three or four men squeezed within but for the bottom ones where no one seemed to venture – not that Roger could blame them from the ancient stench of horse manure and rotting floorboards that emanated from below. The air held a chill though it was still late summer. At the door stood Paul, looking much younger in his excitement than even his already few years. A few curious faces turned from their beds to look at the stranger. "Men, this is Mr. Bond. He's come to get us all out of here."

"Impossible." A black haired man with a think German accent muttered, turning his face back into the bunk. A few of the other men shrugged in agreement and turned away as well.

"That's Franz Mueller, one of the Germans." Hoople whispered.

"It is far from impossible, Mr. Mueller. But it will be difficult. I'll need everyone's cooperation."

The German turned regarding Roger with a disinterested glare, "What is your plan, Englishman?"

"Well, there are still a few details I have to work out but-"

"He doesn't have one." Mueller declared gruffly and turned once more to his wood plank bed. The remainder of other men who had been curious about the stranger now did likewise. Even Paul seemed to shrink off to the side.

"I assure you I do." Roger attempted.

"And why should I believe you? Why should any of us?" the rough German voice mumbled from the top bunk.

"Because I say it!" Jeremy Hoople stood at full attention, with his back arched slightly, his chin tilted up, looking every bit the commander he was despite the ragged clothes that hung from his body. Every man in the barracks snapped to look at the slight young man as though he were their captain giving out orders. "You trust me, do you not? I believe him and I say you all should as well! This man has traveled all this way to help us and the very least we can do as gentlemen is give him a chance to be heard. Mr. Bond, when will you finish your plan?"

"By tonight, I believe."

"Good. Until then I expect you all to treat Mr. Bond with respect. If he needs something, provide it. If he asks a question answer it. Our very lives may depend upon it."

"Hrmph" came the sound from Mueller's bunk. Still the rest of the men seemed to become energized by this announcement.

"Do you really think you can get us out?" a scouser asked.

"I do." Roger replied. A din slowly began to rise as the men began to talk hurriedly amongst themselves. Roger caught snippets. Talk of loved ones they would soon be reunited with, homes, one man in particular was in raptures at the thought of once more indulging in a roast goose – he'd eat the whole thing in one sitting, he bragged. Hoople smiled at Roger who nodded in noise had reached a fever pitch when the Breakfast bell rang.

"Oi, get in line behind Mueller." Hoople advised. You're too tall. You'll stand out. The guard's'll only look if there's something to look at." Roger slid in line behind the steely faced German. Franz was easily about his own height with black hair long enough that it brushed his ears before melting into heavy black sideburns. His hair was parted in the middle and brushed back, away from his dark featured face. Features that seemed all the darker for his pale complexion. He might make for a fine footman, Roger mused, but for that perpetual scowl he wore – though he was young enough the expression hadn't set. Hoople stepped in behind Roger. "They'll take us to Breakfast first, then to the mine. Just follow Mueller and you'll be fine."

Hoople had in no way exaggerated the sorry state of the food. Roger took up a spoonful of the nearly clear liquid, tilted it, and watched it dribble back into the bowl disturbing the few cabbage-like leaves and a mushroom. A cloud of pale white which had settled at the bottom swam to the surface. Hungry as he was he could not imagine ingesting the thin stew. "What is this?" he asked Hoople who sat beside him eagerly consuming his meager rations.

"They call it shchi. I'd say it's not so bad as it looks, but you would hang me for a liar. But when you're hungry anything will do."

Roger regarded the wooden bowl incredulously, "This is what passes for shchi here?"

"It's what passes for food here. Now eat it and be grateful." Mueller growled.

Roger picked up a spoonful once more. A soft white lump floated in the center of the spoon. "What is this?"

"Bread from yesterday. We're lucky. Usually there's nothing left for the soup."

"There's no luck to it, some of the Russians must have died." Mueller asserted. Roger recalled the grave he had seen yesterday – those were Russians then.

"Only Russians get bread, you see," Hoople explained. "The only reason we ever get any in the soup is if they overbake. And the only reason they would bake more than was needed-"

"Is if people died before they could eat it." Roger finished somberly.

"There was probably an accident at the factory yesterday. I know we lost a man as well."

"They lost more than a man by the look of it," a man from across the table stated.

Hoople shrugged, "It's the reality of life here. You really should eat, you won't get another chance before dinner."

Roger looked down at his soup once more, "And when would that be?"

"In twelve hours." Hoople replied. Despite the emptiness in his stomach, Roger just could not force himself to bring the spoon to his lips.

"Well if you aren't going to eat it give it to someone who will." Mueller growled. Roger tipped his bowl into Mueller's empty one.

From what he could gather, Hoople and Mueller served in the capacity as leaders to the lost souls of Camp C. While having Hoople's support had bought him a good deal of regard, it would be best if he could ingratiate himself to Mueller as well that they might present a united front. He decided to attempt conversation with the man, "You don't strike me as a sailor,"

"I'm not."

"Where you taken in Germany?"

"St. Petersburg."

"What brought you to St. Petersburg?" Roger asked, his curiosity peaked. Nothing about Mueller suggested a penchant for travel.

"I had business there."

"What sort of business?"

"Business." The German answered, in a manner that suggested were Roger to continue this line of questioning he would come to regret it.

There were no inroads to be made in the man by way of this route. Roger opted to try another tack, "So, do you have any family in Germany, a sweetheart perhaps?"

"I have two brothers."

"Are they older or younger?"

"Younger."

"By how many years?"

"Four."

"Four for the both of them?" Roger was momentarily perplexed.

"They are zwillingbruders."

"Twins, I should have known it," Roger declared, his friendly façade clearly straining. "Are they identical?"

"No." Mueller answered, the steely glare in his eyes declaring with no room for doubt that the conversation was over.

Roger turned to his other neighbor. "Not a very friendly bloke, now is he?" he muttered under his breath.

"No, but he's a hard worker and he has earned the men's respect. He's terribly pragmatic, though. He'll be the challenge to convince on any plan of escape."

A half an hour later they approached the entrance to the mine. The mine itself was situated in a valley between craggy hills almost four miles from the main camp, likely in hopes an explosion would not damage the smelters – or vice versa. They had passed through a gate in the inner fence and now stood on the very edge of the outer fence which traced its line above the mine entrance giving it something of a crown-like appearance. Greeting them a score of feet from the entrance stood a grinning skull displayed prominently on the handle of a shovel wedged into the ground. "That's the Greek," Hoople whispered, "the birds made blessedly short work of his features. It was ghastly." Roger felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach. He counted six guards in total, all armed with rifles. Four watched as the new shift came in, while the other two kept their rifles trained on the mine entrance. "We'll exchange tools with the night shift in the mine." In the mine. No wonder the guards were so lax when it came to security – the only weapons the prisoners might use in an uprising were permanently kept within a mine with only one exit which was constantly watched. Were they to try and escape it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. But just as surely, the guards were just so many fish in this valley and he quite looked forward to giving his long neglected pistol some proper exercise.

"If I can eliminate the guards, how long do you suppose it would take to get everyone over the fence?"

"Five minutes at the most from the meeting place. Probably fewer if we run, and I can't imagine we won't."

He followed Mueller into the darkness of the mine. Instantly blackness enveloped them, he turned to look behind, seeing the bright circle of the entrance growing smaller. He suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to run toward it, to escape from this cold, bleak tomb. He felt a strong hand grip his forearm, it was Mueller.

"Don't." the German warned as if reading the spy's thoughts. To steady his nerves Roger breathed deeply the chill air, think with mine dust, causing him to break into a coughing fit.

Hoople hit him on the back, "Best not to breathe too deep."

They continued to plunge blindly down into the earth. Roger quickly lost his sense of space and distance, he guessed they had been walking for at least five minutes meaning they had probably gone a mile down the sloping corridor. He could only guess at the size of the corridor, reaching out he only felt the void, but above him he could sense the ceiling was not far above. From somewhere in the dark he thought he saw a light flicker, then disappear. There it was again! And another and another, marching closer in a line. The outline of the corridor began to reveal itself. As wide as two men though scarcely his height. As the lights grew closer they revealed the thin, soot covered faces beneath each etched with exhaustion, their sunken eyes staring vacantly ahead above sunken cheeks blackened below their headlamps like some army of the damned led by one of the well-dressed guards. Wordlessly, the men exchanged uniforms with their replacements. Roger placed the lamp on his head, turning it this way and that. To his right was a recessed area wherein a large wooden door had been constructed with the words "Opasno! Ne priblizhaytes! Vzryvoopasnyy Gaz! scrawled across it in yellow paint. Explosive gas. He felt a great deal less secure with a candle now strapped around his cranium.

From beside he heard Hoople whisper something to one of the men but could not discern what had been uttered. Taking up his pickaxe he continued followed Mueller and the others further down into the mine.

The work was grueling in air so thick with black dust the men tied their shirts around their mouths so they could breath. At first he had shivered as the cold dampness of the mine caressed his bare skin but it was not long before sweat covered him as he swung the pickaxe into the stone his strength from being well fed making up for his lack of experience. Beside him Hoople and Mueller chipped away with some internal strength certainly not fueled by the food. Glancing at them, naked from the waist up, he could now see how wasted they were from their incarceration. Muscles and bones bulged from pale skin. He was startled by the appearance of Paul, the copper-haired Welshman, now an animate skeleton driving a stake into the far wall. Pulling it out he took a stick of dynamite from a sack slung over his companion's shoulder. "Fire in the hole!" he cried. The men rushed up the tunnel. Moments later Paul threw himself among them as they crouched in an upper passageway followed by the sound of a loud explosion.

"Back in the hole!" the guard ordered, waving his rifle at the men. And thus the hours passed.

By the end of the twelve hour shift Roger's arms felt as though they might mutiny for the body of a kinder soul – and this after Hoople allowed him to rest a few hours when the guard fell asleep, assuring him that he would handle the spy's work as well as his own. "It wouldn't do if your hands aren't steady enough to aim." The smaller man joked. They trudged to supper, where they were served the same soup which suddenly appeared significantly more appetizing to Roger's palette. He desperately wanted to drink it down, had he tasted it he surely would have, but instead he passed his bowl over to Hoople who attempted to force it back to its original owner. "I can't take this!" the sailor objected, "You haven't eaten all day."

"I have half a dozen rabbits awaiting me at camp, I can wait a few more hours. Take it. You did my work as well as your own, allow me to pay you this small favor. Besides, you'll need your strength for the journey."

Hoople smiled and took the bowl, "You really believe we can pull this off?"

"I'd stake my life on it." Roger swore.

"You already are," Hoople's eyes shined from building moisture.

"Well I would be, if I ate the soup." Roger returned. Hoople laughed.

That night, well after midnight, under the watchful eye of a sleeping guard all the men of Camp C - minus those on the night shift - gathered into Hoople's barracks for the meeting. The former stable, already cramped, was now overflowing with bodies. Roger pushed his way through the crowd to the center of the narrow walkway where Hoople stood. "Gentlemen, as you may have heard, this man has come all the way from England to free us!" Hoople announced.

"And how's he gonna do that?" came a cry from the crowd.

"It's impossible!" another shouted.

"I assure you it is not impossible." Roger interjected.

"Tell us your plan Englishman," Mueller's voice rang out over the others, silencing them. "Or else go and let us sleep."

"I'll tell you, Mr. Mueller. Tomorrow morning, during shift change in the mine, you will dispatch the two guards and come to the mine entrance."

"To be shot by the guards." Mueller snorted.

"I will have taken care of them," Roger smiled with that insufferable self-assurance he knew Mina despised, which only encouraged him to adopt it more readily. "I will meet you at the entrance of the mine. From there we will climb over the fence. I have a friend who will meet us on the other side, an Evenk reindeer herder. He has a herd of almost 300 head. We will meet him about a mile from the mine where we will hide you amongst the reindeer."

"Like Ulysses hid his men under the sheep from the Cyclops!" a shout in Greek declared excitedly.

"Exactly, my good man!" Roger answered. "Any trace of your tracks will be trampled by the creatures. The Cossacks won't be able to trace us. I have a Japanese boat waiting for us at the port, they'll bring us the rest of the way to Japan where we will be able to arrange safe passage for all of you to your homelands." The men began talking excitedly amongst themselves.

"This is madness!" Mueller's voice rang out above the rest, silencing them. "Do you honestly think the Cossacks will be fooled for one moment? That the Native won't simply just turn and run at the first sign of challenge? They'll surround us and slaughter us like cattle. I will have no part in this insanity!" A low muttering rose from amongst the men, doubt beginning to creep in upon their hopeful chatter.

"Then you will die here." Hoople said, his eyes narrowed. "I, for one, would rather risk death in the woods at the sword of a Cossack if it meant I might – just might, see my wife and children again than starve to death in one of these bunks." A shout of acclamation followed Hoople's pronouncement. The rest of the men echoed their agreement with the Lieutenant Commander. Mueller turned from them in disgust and climbed into his bunk. Hoople clapped Roger on the back, "Well Mr. Bond James Bond it appears you have won your case. We'll meet you tomorrow morning at the mine entrance."


	11. Chapter 11

Roger perched on the fence, partially obscured by a tree, watching the guards. He had not moved from his position since he had taken it a few hours before sunrise. He had scarcely slept the night before despite overwhelming exhaustion. He ran the plan over in his mind hundreds of time, considering every possible scenario. Six shots. He'd have to make them all. No one in the main camp would question six shots; there was no need to worry regarding reinforcements (though just to be safe he had asked Hoople to situate himself so that he was last in line that he might jam the gate of the inner fence after they had gone through), the guards knew the prisoners were unarmed, they would simply assume there would be a few more emaciated bodies to bury - that some trouble makers had needed to be put down. Roger watched as the line of prisoners approached led by their guard. The mine guards gave them a cursory glance as they disappeared into the gaping maw of the earth. He began to count. Sixty seconds. One hundred twenty. One hundred eighty. Two hundred forty. Three hundred - they would have reach the meeting place. Three hundred sixty - Roger readied his gun, taking aim at the furthest guard. Four hundred - his finger pressed the trigger.

An explosion ripped through the quiet morning air shaking the ground. Roger grabbed the bar at top of the fence to keep from falling off. Black smoke and ash spewed from within the mine. Roger watched in horror as the guards ran toward the mine entrance when suddenly one of them doubled over vomiting; he fell over on his side and lay still. In seconds the other guards collapsed to the ground with not even enough time to drop their rifles. Roger vaulted over the top of the fence, sliding more than climbing down the other side. He rushed to the guard and pressed his fingers to the man's neck, checking for a pulse. He felt nothing.

He raced into the mine. Acrid smoke and dust choked the breath from his lungs and stung his eyes. He covered his nose and mouth with his shirt and ran on to the meeting place. He had to find Hoople! Perhaps there was still a chance some of the men might have survived. Small fires still burned from the blast, lighting the tunnel. Men and body parts lay strewn about the mine floor. Roger desperately scanned the meeting place for any sign of Hoople. He saw the wooden door, or what was left of it, splintered about the floor. Shards of wood jutted from bodies pinned to the walls. "Hoople!" Roger shouted. "Jeremy!" He recognized the burnt face, or what was left of the face, of one of the Greeks, still staring in terror at the empty black portal where the door had once been. "Jeremy!" he cried, following the tunnel. Slight movement arrested his attention, he ran to it. A few yards from the blast sight he saw the form of a slight young man lying prone on the ground, blond hair singed black at the tips, clothing half burned from him. Beneath him another man lay, tall, twig thin arms splayed out on the ground, copper hair waving slightly in the breeze from the tunnel. "Oh Jeremy," Roger moaned, falling on his knees to check the man for a pulse, "you should have just run." He shook his head sadly, turning the man over. His boyish face had survived the blast unscathed, from this angle he appeared like a sleeping child who only needed shaking to awake once more. He placed his fingers on Paul's throat, detecting only the faintest flutter. "Paul!" he called, slapping the young man's cheeks. "Paul, wake up!" The Welshman did not stir. He checked the man's pulse again. Had he simply imagined a heartbeat? The man's throat felt cold, lifeless. The guards would be here in minutes. He stared at the skeletal body before him - there didn't seem much wrong with him beyond some burns to his legs and arms. Perhaps some air. He decided. He hefted the body upon his shoulders - it was surprisingly light for the young man's size. As he stood he suddenly noticed something scrawled upon the wall before him in red, the flickering firelight giving the image a ghastly appearance. He recognized the form of it from Gun's handkerchief, though this was the symbol in its complete form. A giant circle within which a large A had been scrawled, the points of the letter extending out beyond the boundaries of the circle, bisecting it in five places. On the right side of the upper part of the A a smaller K was written, on the left a small M and at the center the face of a sheep stared at him menacingly. Above the symbol, in dripping, bright red letters, read: Ecce Sanguis Agni.

The End

* * *

What happened in the mine? What does the symbol mean? Did Paul survive? What is going on?

Roger's going to need all his friends in order to solve this case.

Tune in for the next exciting Mina Moore Mystery " **The Kingdom of Muenster** "


End file.
